The Fox and the Rose
by S. Faith
Summary: Bridget's newest acquaintance brings with him a bit of a surprise.  AKA the Martin story.  I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb  scattered throughout eleven chapters  warranted a more mature rating.
1. Chapter 1

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating. )  
Summary: Bridget's newest acquaintance brings with him a bit of a surprise.  
Disclaimer: This universe and these characters belong to Ms. Fielding. However, these words in this order belong to me.  
Notes: How did I never read _The Little Prince_ as a child? Shocking. Many thanks to C. for the inspiration for this story.

* * *

**Chapter 1.**

_Late March_

Spring couldn't have come a moment sooner. The seemingly unrelenting and overwhelming grey of winter was finally starting to abate; snow and sleet were beginning to be replaced by refreshing rain; the little green buds on the trees and the burgeoning shoots of grass told of longer days, warmer days, sunnier days to come.

Being outside in the fresh air of the country at this, one of her favourite times of year, was the only reason she'd agreed to go to her parents' house at all. Certainly she had no interest in her parents' parties; the last one she'd attended had been a nightmare and a half, forced to meet a horribly rude, badly dressed man while suffering a vile, near-crippling hangover, an insult to her already present injury. Her mother Pam had promised her she could keep to herself, that no further attempts would be made to set her up with anyone.

"You promise?" she had asked.

"I promise," her mother had replied. "Cross my heart."

She took a taxi from the train station to her parents' place just as she had countless times before. She rapped upon the front door but no one answered. Figuring they were probably in the garden enjoying the delightfully warm weather, if the shrieks of children playing nearby were any indication, she gave the knob a turn on the off-chance it was not locked. It was indeed open, unusual for her mother, and she ventured inside. Before she even had a chance to set her bag down, though, her attention was drawn by a most peculiar sound: a child's voice.

For the briefest of moments she had a panic that perhaps she had gone into the wrong house altogether; but no, there was the gaudy wallpaper and the horrible framed artwork she knew to be among her mother's favourite things. She focused on the sound of the voice, followed it into the sitting room, and was duly surprised by what she saw, or rather, by whom.

In the centre of the sofa was a child, likely no more than six or seven, lanky and wearing long trousers and a dress shirt; his feet, clad in strangely shiny patent leather shoes, dangled above the ground. His hair was dark brown, his skin, pale, and at the sound of her footsteps into the room he looked up with wide chestnut eyes, his face thin and tiny-looking under that mop of hair. His expression bespoke the horror one might feel at being caught robbing a house, not simply sitting and reading a book in one.

"Hi," she said gently. "What are you doing in here, all on your own?"

He didn't respond. She drew nearer.

"I'm Bridget. What's your name?"

"M-M," he began unsurely. "Martin."

"Martin. Well, Martin, it's very nice to meet you, though it seems strange you're in here all alone. Are you here with someone?"

He nodded shyly. "My dad."

"Ah." She glanced up, saw the lot of party-goers through the windows in the dining room, saw a few pint-sized kids run back and forth, obviously having fun out there. "So why aren't you playing with the others?"

He shrugged, looking down at the book once more. "They always tease me about my shoes."

"They're nice," she said, glancing to the oddly dressy shoes. "I suppose they're probably not suitable for running around outside, anyway. They'd get all scuffed up."

He nodded.

"So what have you found there?"

He held up the book; she saw it was her childhood copy of _The Little Prince_.

"Oh, one of my very favourites," she said. "Have you read it before?"

He shook his head. "Some of the words are hard, but I like it. And he's six like me, at least at the start."

"You're six, are you," she said matter-of-factly. He nodded again, and she thought she saw a hint of a proud smile.

"I haven't gotten very far, though," he said dolefully. "I'm afraid I won't finish before we have to go."

"Oh." She had come ostensibly to spend some time out of doors, had dressed in her favourite floral sundress and mules, but in the very short time since had met little Martin she was oddly drawn to his serious nature, was sympathetic to the teasing from the other children, and really relished the idea of coaxing a real, full smile out of him. "Well, how about if I read it to you?"

He blinked, then nodded, then offered a bit more of a grin. "Can you read really well?"

"Well enough," she said.

"Oh! Can you do different voices?" he asked, enthusiasm in his voice.

She chuckled. "I'll do my best."

She took a seat beside him, then asked him to hand her the book. She saw he hadn't made it very far in, so she said, flipping back to the first chapter, "Well, we'll just begin at the beginning, shall we?"

He nodded again, and this time he did give her a full smile, revealing that he was missing one of his front teeth. He seemed to realise she'd noticed, though, and quickly clamped his mouth shut.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed," she said. "We've all been there, all of us." She settled back and, cleared her throat; she could hardly believe she was doing this instead of having a Pimm's and a ciggie. "Well. Chapter one."

Within minutes the young boy had sidled up close to her, eager to follow along with her speaking the words, eager too to see the drawings as they fit in with the words, and craning in a rather uncomfortable-looking manner to do so.

"I have an idea," she said, stopping for a moment. "How about we put the book half on your lap, half on mine? You might be able to see better."

"Okay."

She raised her arm up to place it around his shoulders as his small hand took hold of the left edge of the book.

"That's better," he declared.

She read, doing as much variety in the voices as she could. Raptly he listened, asking thoughtful questions about the larger words and talking about the story in general. She didn't know how long they had been in there. Since they had spent some time talking and generally having a nice time of it, she knew it had taken a lot longer than a strict read-through would have; they had not even finished chapter eight. In the middle of the story about the prince and his flower, Martin's head popped up and he exclaimed, "Dad!"

As the boy bounced up and off the sofa, she looked on in astonishment. Martin's dad was the very same rude and insulting man her mother had tried to foist upon her at the last party at New Year's: one Mark Darcy.

…

It seemed that Martin had an uncanny ability to lose himself just about everywhere, but Mark wasn't worried. The last time Mark had seen his son was out by the children's table, picking at the corner of a sandwich and sipping a glass of juice. Whenever at an outdoor event, Martin inevitably ended up back inside, which was where Mark was heading now after a quick canvass of the garden.

As he stepped into the house, he heard a distinct peal of laughter he knew to be his son's. He went towards the sound and was amazed at what he discovered in the sitting room: his boy was sitting with someone, a woman he did not know, studiously reading text he recognised to be from _The Little Prince_, and reading the prince's prized flower with great vocal effect. He was stunned at the sight of his normally reticent, introverted child showing so much eagerness, engaging himself so well with a stranger. It did not escape his notice that she was attractively dressed in a floral dress that accentuated her shapely legs, her hair shiny and golden, full lashes beneath fine brows—

That was when Martin noticed and ran to him. When she looked up, her mouth literally dropped open, her blue eyes went wide with surprise. "_He's_ your dad?" she asked.

"Yes! Dad, this nice lady Bridget was reading to me," Martin said animatedly, taking his father's hand. "Doesn't she do a good flower voice?"

Bridget. The woman he'd met at the Turkey Curry Buffet who'd been smoking and drinking to assuage a hangover, the one who'd generally demonstrated a distinct lack of maturity, was the woman reading to his child. He struggled to contain his true feelings regarding the 'nice lady' even as he scrutinised her stunned expression. "Yes. Very good." To Bridget he said, "He hasn't been bothering you, has he?"

"No," she said, her eyes challenging his as she stood, closing the book. "In fact, he's provided me with the most interesting conversation I've had all day."

He cleared his throat and looked back to his son, who was looking up at Bridget with a worrying amount of adoration. "Come on, Martin, it's time to leave. I've been looking all over for you."

"He's been here the whole time," said Bridget, not without sharpness to her voice.

"But we haven't finished," Martin said balefully.

"Martin," she said kindly, holding the book out towards him, "why don't you go ahead and keep it? Then you can finish it on your own."

"But you said it was a favourite of yours," he said. "I don't want to take it from you."

She grinned. "Why don't we call it a loan, then?" Her eyes flashed to Mark. "If that's okay with your dad."

His jaw tensed. He wasn't about to deny Martin this, but he did not want to prolong their association. "That's fine."

Reluctantly Martin smiled. "Okay." He accepted the book with a bright smile to his father, which turned to a frown. "Oh, but we're going home tonight and I don't think I can read it all before then."

"It's all right," said Bridget. "You don't have to finish before you leave. You can always bring it back the next time you're here in Grafton Underwood."

"But that might be months and months," he said with concern. "I don't want to borrow it so long. You might want to read it again."

Mark saw she was trying not to smile. "Well, let me think. You live in London, right?" Martin nodded. "So do I. And, if I remember correctly," she said, giving Mark a steady look, "you actually live 'round the corner from me." Glancing back to Martin, she added, "You could return it to me any time you like."

An even brighter smile and a fond clutching of the book to his chest was the only reply she got, until he asked, "Where do you live? So we know where to go."

"Um," she said, glancing between father and son. "I'll jot it down." She strode over to a writing desk, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote quickly on it. She folded it and handed it to Mark. "There you are."

"Martin, go find your grandmother and grandfather and tell them it's time we head back to the house now," Mark said in a touch more commanding tone than he intended as he tucked her note into his jacket pocket.

"Yes, Dad." Martin hesitated, though; he looked like he was mulling something over in his head before making his decision: he ran over to Bridget with his arms out (hand still clasping the book) and embraced her around the legs. "'Bye, Bridget," he said. "I'm really glad I met you."

Bridget flushed bright red, and turned her eyes to Mark before glancing down again. "I'm really glad to have met you too." With that he released her and dashed out of the room, leaving a palpable awkwardness behind.

"That was very generous of you," Mark said, an edge of coolness to his voice.

"Well, he really seems to enjoy the story," she said. "Maybe you could finish reading it to him."

"I doubt my flower voice could compare," he said stiffly. "Well. Goodbye."

With that, he strode out of the room. His departure was a bit brusque, but his thoughts were jumbled. He considered that Bridget had been talking to Martin as if he were a person and not cooing and fawning over him like so many other women did to try to ingratiate themselves to him, and grudgingly he had to admit the point in her favour. It wasn't until they were all together at the car and driving back to his parents' house that Mark snapped back to his present surroundings, when Martin was asked where the book had come from.

"A nice lady called Bridget read it to me," Martin said proudly.

Mark glanced up into the rear view mirror just in time to see his mother Elaine's surprised look. "Really?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm," Martin went on. "She did voices, too. She did a _great_ flower voice."

"A… flower voice?"

"It's _The Little Prince_, Mother," supplied Mark.

"Ah, yes," she said. "And she did a nice job of it, did she?"

"Yes!" Martin said. "I wish she could've finish reading it for me. She was really nice."

"Is that so?" asked Elaine, meeting Mark's gaze in the mirror again. He did not like the smile on her face, or rather, what that smile suggested.

"Yes," Martin affirmed. "Plus, she's really pretty, too. You thought so too, Dad, right?"

Mark looked away, back to the road, feeling heat creep over his cheek.

When they got to the house, Martin holed himself up in the window seat overlooking the front garden, cracked the book open to the page with the drawing of the beautiful flower, and began reading aloud to himself, doing a higher-pitched voice for the flower as Bridget had done.

"My word," said Elaine quietly. "I think that boy is quite taken with his new book."

"It's been lent to him," said Mark.

"I think he's equally taken with his new friend."

Mark said nothing, just pursed his lips.

"You should be thankful he's taken such an interest," she said. "He's so hard to draw out of his shell sometimes."

Mark could not help but agree. "I know. I am."

She patted him affectionately on the shoulder. "Well, I'll go check on supper. I know you'll have to be on the road soon."

As his mother left, he watched his son and reflected on what had occurred that day. Mark knew it was hard on Martin to be without a mother. After a marriage of convenience that had occurred only because she'd become unexpectedly pregnant, she had pretty much abandoned them shortly after his birth; she'd decided motherhood was not for her and had also taken to sleeping with his best friend. She had not contested anything about custody during the divorce, and had not once come to see her son since leaving them for the continent. She had made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with her child, and though Mark had never told Martin in so many words, he knew it had to hurt the boy to never get so much as a letter, a card, a telephone call. He was very bright, extremely perceptive, and knew that most of his schoolmates had a dad and a mum. He had the love of his grandparents and the care of his nanny, and of course he had Mark's own love which was unconditional and fierce, but it seemed the one thing Martin wanted most was the one thing Mark had to date been unable to provide.

"Dad? What's this word?"

He snapped to attention and went to see to which word Martin had gotten stuck on, taking a seat beside his son, looking to the word to which his little finger was pointing.

"'Reproaches'," said Mark.

"Re-pro-chess," repeated Martin with deliberation. "What does that mean?"

"Well, to reproach something is to disapprove or be disappointed by something." His eyes scanned over the prior text. "In this case, the prince is surprised that the flower is not expressing her disappointment because he's leaving."

"Oh," he said. "Why wouldn't she be disappointed, though?"

Mark's eyes skimmed down. "You'll need to keep reading."

"Read it to me?" he asked. "You're faster."

He did as his son asked, and at the final two sentences of the chapter, when Mark revealed to him that the flower did not want him to stay just for her, Martin made a sound of surprise.

"She's proud? Like when you're proud of me for high marks?"

Mark smiled. "Not exactly. To be proud in this sense is to… not want to reveal how sad and weak she felt."

"She doesn't want him to go at all!" he said.

Mark nodded. "That's right."

"He just goes because he wants to get away from her?"

"He wants to find other company, too," explained Mark. "But yes."

"Oh," he said, staring downward. In a small voice, he added, "Sometimes people go even if you don't want them to."

"Yes," said Mark. The conversation was veering dangerously towards serious topics, ones which were obviously upsetting the boy. Mark reached for the book and took it from him, closing it. "And sometimes people come into your life when you least expect it, and they end up being the best thing that happens to you."

Mark was referring to the great gift he'd been given in the form of his son, but Martin chose to interpret it differently: "Oh, you mean like Bridget!"

Still wanting to reassure the boy, Mark agreed, then rose to his feet. "Come on. Let's go see if Gran wants some help with setting the table."

"Okay," he said, further recovering his happy mood at the thought of supper. "By the way, Dad, your flower voice is really terrible."

Mark chuckled, running his hand over Martin's wild hair. "Come on," he said again, helping him down off of the seat. His own words kept turning around in his head, though:

_…sometimes people come into your life when you least expect it, and they end up being the best thing that happens to you._

…

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The party was over; after her interaction with Martin and Mark she'd gotten herself nice and squiffy on both Pimm's and wine (which she was sure to regret), had managed to avoid Geoffrey Alconbury, and had even got a bit of sun. As she dressed in her jacket to wait for her father Colin to come down to drive her to the train station, she demanded this of her mother.

"Tell you? Tell you what?" asked Pam, genuinely confused.

"That Mark Bloody Darcy has a _kid!_ Didn't you think it was important when you were trying to set me up with him?" At least they had told her he was divorced.

"Oh, that," she replied. "Well, I didn't think it important and I didn't want it influencing you."

"How would it influence me any less than a terrible reindeer jumper?"

"Well, _that_ I had no control over." Pam sighed. "I just didn't want you to… well, some women are put off by a man who already has a child. I thought you should give him a fair shake."

She rolled her eyes.

Her mother went on. "Martin's a darling child, though, very like his father at that age. Too thoughtful and introspective."

"He was very sweet," Bridget agreed. "I enjoyed talking to him."

"But I thought you arrived after they'd gone."

"No, when I came in I found him reading _The Little Prince_."

"Oh," she said cooingly. "That doesn't surprise me. He loves those shoes of his and the other children can be so ghastly."

"Wait, what about the shoes?" She'd assumed the overly dressy shoes were something his father or grandmother had made him wear.

"Well, you know," said Pam. "He just idolises his father and loves that their shoes match."

"Oh," said Bridget.

"So you talked to him?" pressed Pam.

"I… read to him from the book. Then let him borrow the book."

"Oh, Bridget," she said with a smile. "That's the way to win his heart, through his son."

"What?" she asked, realising what her mother was insinuating. "No, it wasn't that at all. I didn't even know that was his kid."

Her mother made a clucking sound. "But you liked him."

"Martin? Yes, very much," she admitted with a sigh.

Her mother only smiled smugly, but before further conversation could occur and aggravate her, her father came into the room.

"Found the keys at last," he said. "Come on, love, you've got a train to catch."

"Yes."

"Goodbye, darling," said her mother, air-kissing over her cheeks in her usual way.

As they left the drive and headed towards the station, her father said, "Sorry about that, love. You know your mother just wants you to find happiness. As do I."

"You at least aren't trying to force it on me."

He chuckled. "Well, that's your mum. Being proactive."

She smiled too.

"Your mum says that's when his wife left him, at Christmastime, so she's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt." He snorted. "I still don't like the way he treated you though."

"Hm," she said. She'd had no idea that he, and presumably their child, had been abandoned at such an emotionally charged time of year. "You're right," she murmured, though she felt somewhat more charitable towards him having been given this knowledge.

"I do feel for the child, though," her father continued. "Martin was just an infant, no more than a couple of months old when she stepped out on her own husband with his best friend. And she apparently won't have a thing to do with the poor lad."

"That is too bad," she said, then added before she could think better of it: "She sounds like kind of a bitch, though, so maybe he's better off."

He laughed. "Probably, dumpling. Well. Here we are. Safe travels back to town, glad you're not driving. Talk to you soon."

She bent forward and kissed his cheek before stepping up and out of the car, then waved to her dad as she trudged into the station and onto the train. She had brought a book to occupy her thoughts during the two hour ride, but instead she felt herself thinking of her time with young Martin Darcy.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 2.**

"Dad?"

The sound of his son's voice startled him. He didn't often work at home, but he'd been asked to produce a brief by the morning, and it was not the sort of case for which he could get an extension. He was almost finished, and thankfully Martin was a self-entertaining child, content to sit and read or watch a film on his own.

"Yes?" he asked, setting his laptop aside.

"Have you ever tamed anything?"

He stared at the boy, wondering if he'd lost his mind.

"Pardon?"

"Well, in the story, the fox can't play with the prince until he's been tamed."

Ah. It was _The Little Prince_ again. Martin had made slow and steady progress through the book for a little bit every night between dinner and bedtime.

"I haven't tamed any animals, if you mean that."

"Has anyone tamed you?"

Now Mark was confused. "What exactly do you mean by 'tamed', Martin?"

"Hold on." He dashed out of the room then returned a few minutes later with the book in hand, flipping through the pages. "Here, I'll read."

Mark extended his hand. "Just give it to me; I'll read it directly."

According to the book, the fox defined 'tame' as meaning 'to establish ties': _"To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…"_

Mark closed the book. "No, Martin, I can't say that I've been tamed." He offered the crestfallen boy a grin. "Well. Except maybe by you."

Martin revealed a gap-toothed smile at that statement.

Mark realised that he only needed to write the conclusion on his brief, and that was something he could do after his son had gone to bed. "What do you say you and I take a walk to the park and back?"

"Really?"

He nodded. "Go and get your shoes and jacket on. I'll meet you at the front door."

"Okay."

It was already twilight, and as cloudless as it was the stars were starting to emerge in the night sky. He held Martin's hand in his own as they got to Holland Park.

"I wonder which is the prince's planet," he heard Martin say. He looked down to his son to see the boy staring up at the night sky through breaks in the trees as they walked.

"It's a pretty small planet," said Mark. "I'm not sure we can even see it from here." At the look of disappointment on the boy's features, he added, "But if we could, which one do you think it might be?"

They sat on a bench together on the edge of an open field and stared up into the sky. With the ambient light from the city the stars were not nearly as easy to see as they might be in the country, but they were still fairly visible; he made a point to take Martin out again soon, at least far enough for a good look.

"Hmm," Martin said after a few thoughtful minutes. "I think it'd be that one up there. It's sort of pink."

"Why pink?"

"You know, because there's a rose on it."

"A rose?"

Martin nodded, looking very forlorn. "Yes, that's his flower. And when the prince got to Earth and saw a rose garden, he cried and cried. He missed his own rose very much."

Mark put his arm around his son's shoulders and held him close. It had been a while since he'd last read the book; he wondered if it might not do him some good to re-read it to refresh his memory and prepare himself for what was to come.

"Well," Mark said at last. "I think you make a very compelling argument." He looked down just in time to see Martin with a cockeyed smile playing on his lips before he yawned. "Oh, yes, another compelling argument, this one for bed."

"Dad, I'm not tired," he said even as he fought to keep his eyes open.

"Come on, my boy," he said, rising to his feet. "I'll carry you if you like."

"Okay."

It wasn't a long walk home—they could see the house from the park, after all—yet by the time Mark was scaling the stairs and fumbling for the key in his pocket with his son in the other arm, the boy was sound asleep. He took Martin upstairs, divested him of his clothes and tucked him into bed. Mark glanced at the book on his bedside table. He kissed his son's forehead, rose from the bed, taking the book in hand as he did, then left the room.

He put together the final paragraphs of the brief in record time, then sat back with _The Little Prince_. By the time he closed the book he felt quite emotional, both in recalling his memories of reading the story as a boy, and by the story itself. At least though he'd be prepared to speak a bit more authoritatively on it when the time came.

…

It was ten a.m., fairly early on Saturday morning in Bridget's opinion (particularly with a hangover), when she awakened to the sound of the faint ringing of her telephone. Thinking it might be her friends, or even better still, her boss Daniel (on whom she had the hugest crush), she threw back the sheets and stumbled out to find the source of the noise.

She picked up the handset, brought it to her ear, and cleared her throat to say, "Bridget Jones."

There didn't appear to be anyone there.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hi, Bridget."

She blinked rapidly, trying to place the voice. Very high-pitched and young sounding…

"Who is this?" she asked.

"It's Martin."

Without the assistance of a morning cup of coffee she struggled to think of who she knew named Martin, and realised in that instant she knew only one with a voice like that, a boy of six years of age. She thanked Jesus and all of the saints in heaven that she had not answered with a naughty innuendo. "Hi, Martin," she said. "How are you?"

"Good," he said. "I mean 'well'." He said nothing more, clearly not familiar with the expected rituals of telephonic interactions.

"Was there something I could do for you?" she prompted.

"Um," he said. "Well, I was playing and I found a piece of paper on the table so I opened it and saw it was your name and address. And phone number. So, um, I thought I would call you. I'm done with the book and I thought I would call to say so since you probably want it back."

She tried not to laugh; he sounded so sweet and nervous. "Oh, well, thank you. Did you like it?"

"Uh-huh," he said eagerly. "I liked it a lot, though my dad doesn't do a good flower voice like you."

"I'm sure he tried his best," she said.

"He did a really good fox though. Oh! Do you think the sheep ate the rose?" he asked, suddenly sounding worried.

"Absolutely not," Bridget said confidently. "The rose would have been very nice to him, and he would not have wanted to."

"Oh," said Martin. "Oh, yes. Yes. That makes sense."

She smiled again and was about to ask if his father knew he was calling when she heard that same man's voice say, "Martin? What are you doing?" Coming closer, she could hear Mark ask in quite a serious tone, "Are you talking to someone?"

"Yes, Dad," he said. "Here, it's Bridget."

There was a pause, and the next voice that spoke directly into her ear was Mark's. "Bridget. I'm sorry, I didn't hear the phone ring. I've told him he shouldn't try to answer for me—"

"I didn't call," she interrupted gently. "He called me."

"He… called _you_," said Mark with a level of incredulity that could not be disguised. There was a rustle of paper. "Yes, yes, thank you for the note," he said, presumably to Martin. "He apparently found your number. He didn't bother you, did he?"

"He did wake me, but that's all right. Hard to be angry at a child whose only concern was to return loaned property."

"Ah. Yes," said Mark in an odd staccato. "We finished last night. He was very concerned that you should have your book back as soon as possible."

She chuckled. "I'm really in no hurry. It's been sitting in my mother's bookcase for years."

"I'm sure," said Mark. "But the thing is, I will not hear the end of it until it's back in your hands. So… if you're free today, maybe we can… well, meet."

"That's fine," she said, mentally going over her plans for the day. She had none. There was also the matter of a recent acquisition she had intended on giving the boy, anyway. "You're welcome to pop by, oh… except…" She glanced around at the wine bottles and takeaway boxes, and she was overwhelmed by the enormity of the cleaning task ahead of her. "Well. My flat's sort of unfit to be seen at present. Give me a couple of hours, maybe… or I could come by your place."

"I'd hate to inconvenience you, and we have to go out anyway to run some errands," he said. "The nanny's home sick so we're together all day."

Secretly she wondered if he just didn't want her to know where he lived. "Oh, fine, sure. How's three?"

"Two would work better. I hope that's okay."

"Oh, that's fine." She thought it would take a lot of work to get the flat in not only clean, but in a somewhat child-friendly state—_make that a Mark-Darcy-approved child-friendly state_, she thought, her head filling with visions of military- or Eton-esque décor—with a splitting headache and a cotton mouth. She figured she had best get on task as soon as possible. "And you have the paper, so…"

"Yes. With the address."

"It's above a pub, my flat," she said.

He didn't reply.

"Above, not in," she added.

"Yes," he said quickly. "I know."

"I'll see you at two, then."

"See you then."

She hung up, drew in a great breath, and went to the kitchen. First things first: coffee.

…

Martin's spirits were as high that afternoon as Mark could recall seeing them in some time. He was bubbly and more talkative than usual during their shopping errands.

As the car approached Bridget's neighbourhood, Mark glanced to the clock on the dashboard. Not quite the appointed hour, but he was sure he'd need time to find a place to park. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be excited about giving the book back," he said.

"Oh, I'm not happy about that, 'cause I like the book a lot and I'll miss it," he said. "I'm happy to see my friend again, though."

Mark's brow went up of its own accord. "Your friend?" he asked with a smile.

"Yes," Martin said. "She's nice to me and she read me a story."

"With a good flower voice," he said. "I remember." He took a moment to edge into a space along the kerb. "Well, we can get you your own copy of the book. Would you like that?"

"Okay," he said.

"Great." Mark thought ahead to the next week; they could probably make time to go to a bookstore later in the week. After switching off the engine, Mark helped Martin up and out of the car, then reached in for the book, which the boy insisted on carrying. After walking with Martin's hand in his, Mark said, looking up at the building, "We're here."

"Does she live in the pub?" Martin asked excitedly.

Mark chuckled to himself. "No," he said. "She lives in the building; it's just above the pub."

"Oh," he said, sounding very disappointed.

They approached the building and Mark pressed the buzzer associated with her flat. After a few moments, a tinny voice sounded from the speaker. "Yes, who is it?"

"Hi Bridget!" shouted Martin excitedly.

"It's Mark. And Martin."

He could hear her laughing. "Hi Martin," she said through her chuckles. "Hello Mark. Come up on. Top floor. Sorry there's no lift."

"It's okay, we go for lots of walks," explained Martin.

He heard the lock on the door disengage, and he said, "We'll be right up. Thanks."

Mark pulled the door open and ushered his son in before they made the long journey up to the top floor. When they got there, he suggested Martin do the knocking.

Within a minute or two the door opened. "Hi!" said Martin, holding up the book. "Here you are. Thanks so much."

She laughed; he granted that she had a very pretty smile, and a lovely laugh. "Thank you," she said, taking it from his hand. She met Mark's eye. "You're welcome to come in if you have the time. I forgot to mention that I… have something." She looked pointedly at Martin, then back at Mark, her eyes momentarily widening, that universal indication that she didn't want to say what it was she had unless they could in fact stay.

He looked down to his son, who looked extremely hopeful. "What do you say, Martin? Do we have the time?"

He beamed a grin. "Yes!"

"Great." She went up the stairs, called back, "Just pull that door closed behind you."

They followed her up the stairs and into the flat proper. He was certain she had spent the last few hours cleaning, but even still there was evidence of a night out drinking: a pair of heeled shoes in a jumble by the door; a jacket thrown haphazardly on the rail by the stairs smelling strongly of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke; a clutch purse on the table with a packet of cigarettes hanging out of it. "Sorry," she said, setting the book down then scooping the purse up and snapping it closed. "You were a little early and I hadn't finished cleaning yet."

"Late night?" Mark asked.

She pursed her lips. "A little," she said coolly. "I went out with some friends. You know going out with friends, don't you?" She turned to Martin. "Would you like something to drink? Milk, maybe, or some juice?"

"What kind of juice?" he asked.

"Orange juice." She looked to Mark. "Straight, unadulterated orange juice. Is that all right?"

"It's fine," Mark said.

"Okay. Be right back. Make yourself comfortable." As Martin went to sit on the sofa, careful to keep his shiny shoes off of the furniture, she said quietly to Mark, "I have something for him if it's okay with you."

"What is it?"

"Well… I work in publishing, you know, and this week we received an advance copy of a new imprint of _The Little Prince_, complete with an audio disc. I thought of Martin, and thought he might… like it. You know, for nights you can't read it to him."

"I read to him all the time," Mark bristled.

"I didn't mean anything by that," she said.

He sighed. He didn't know why he'd been so defensive. "Sorry. Yes. That'd be very kind of you."

"Okay. I'll get the juice and be right back."

Mark watched her go into the kitchen, in perfect view of the sitting room, into which he went to ensure Martin wasn't getting himself into any trouble. He needn't have worried too much; Martin sat with his hands folded on his lap, a model of best behaviour. Mark glanced idly around him. On the walls hung photos of her friends (he assumed they were her friends), pulling faces, sloshing glasses of wine, fag ends hanging out of their mouths… and on the bookshelves, the likes of _You Can Heal Your Life_ and _Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus_, as well as other mass-market titles he recognised from the best-seller list. By the telly sat an array of what he presumed were the premiere titles in the genre of the romantic comedy, along with a well-worn copy of another film that had a place of great prominence on the rack, the BBC miniseries that had enthralled all young women across Britain some years back.

"Here you are," said Bridget. Mark turned to see her approach with a small tumbler of juice. "Sorry, I haven't any plastic cups, so you'll just need to be extra careful, okay?" Martin nodded solemnly and accepted the glass in his hand. She looked to Mark. "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have offered to get some for you."

"I'm fine," he said. "But thank you."

She looked to Martin, who was quietly and carefully sipping his glass of juice, then to Mark; specifically, to what Mark had obviously been perusing. "Browsing for something to read?" she asked, her mouth twisted with amusement.

"Not quite my cup of tea," he said. "You have an impressive collection, though."

"The definitive self-help collection there," she said; he wondered if she was taking the piss out of him. "If literature _is_ your cup of tea…" she began, then pointed to another set of shelves. He looked there and was astounded to see tomes on whose spines familiar names were emblazoned: the Brontë sisters, Austen, Lawrence, Shakespeare, Dickens… not so much surprised that she had literature, but that she had such an impressive variety of books. He should have guessed that working in a publishing house meant she might have a broader taste than just one or the other.

"Ah," he said, trying to sound both contrite and approving.

"I'm done with my juice," Martin said quietly. Mark turned again and saw him leaning to hand the empty glass not to himself, but to Bridget.

"Thank you," she said, accepting it. "Now, about the… item I have. Be right back."

She went back into the kitchen to deposit the glass, and as she did, Martin asked with restrained excitement, "What does she have? Is it for me?"

"It's a little surprise," he said. "And yes, it's for you."

Martin smiled, obviously more than a bit pleased.

"Okay," she called from the back of the flat. "Close your eyes, Martin."

He squeezed them shut, probably tighter than they strictly needed to be. "They're closed!"

"I'll vouch for that," Mark said.

"Okay." She came forward with the book in hand. It was a very lovely hardcover edition with gilded writing on the outside. She walked silently towards him then crouched beside him to set the book on his small lap. "You can open your eyes now."

When he did, his eyes went round and wide, and his mouth opened in true astonishment. "Oh my goodness!" he said in a breathless voice. "Is this for me to keep?"

"It is," she said with a smug smile. "When I saw it I thought you might like to have it."

"It's so beautiful!" he said, opening the front cover, on which was stuck a paper envelope that contained the disc. "Oh! What's this for?"

"Well, it's someone reading the story," she said. "A man with a very nice voice, and I am told does a really excellent flower."

"Not better than you," he said.

She laughed. "Well, that remains to be seen. Or rather, heard."

He flipped page after page, still looking stunned but also very pleased. "Wow, this is _really_ great," said Martin. Mark was about to remind him to thank her for such a nice gift, but he didn't need to; Martin closed the book and launched himself forward to put his arms around her neck for a hug. Bridget managed to catch the book before it hit the ground. "Thank you so, so much," he said. "You're really the greatest."

She laughed as her face turned pink in her embarrassment, bringing her free hand up to pat his back then return the hug. "I'm really glad you like it."

He pushed back and looked at his father as Bridget got to her feet, handing him his book again. "Now we don't have to go buy one, Dad! We have one right now!"

She looked inquisitively to Mark. "I was going to take him later this week for a copy of his own," Mark explained.

"Oh, well, I hope I haven't ruined anything."

"As you can see," Mark said as Martin hugged his new book, "you've ruined absolutely nothing at all." He offered her a smile. "Thank you once more for your generosity, but I think we should be—"

Mark's mobile began to ring, interrupting him.

"Uh oh, that's never a fun thing," said Martin. Mark shared the sentiment. He rarely got calls on his mobile, and most of the ones he did get were work-related.

"If you'll excuse me one moment," Mark said.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3.**

"Why isn't it fun?" Bridget asked the boy as Mark turned away to speak in hushed tones into the mobile.

"'Cause it always means we have to stop what we're doing and I get to stay with Nanny Alberta."

Bridget looked to Mark, who was pinching at the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, his brows knit. It did not look fun, indeed. She recalled too that Mark mentioned the nanny was sick; what would happen if Mark needed to go off?

"Wait right here," she said to Martin, then approached Mark, saying his name in a soft stage whisper.

"One moment," he said into the phone.

"I don't want to intrude, but if this is important and you need someone to keep an eye on Martin, I'd be happy to do so."

He blinked in surprise; she could tell there was a healthy debate happening in his mind on the wisdom of leaving his precious son with a smoking, drinking, verbally incontinent spinster.

"I promise not to let him play with plastic carrier bags or look at porn on the internet," she said solemnly, then winked.

A small smile escaped him before he had a chance to rein it in. "I'm in quite a difficult spot," he said. "I really do need to go and I'm stuck with the nanny out of commission, and I don't fancy taking him down to Metro Police. If it is really no trouble, I would be very grateful."

"He seems a very good kid," she said, looking to where Martin stood, book in hand. "It's no trouble at all."

"Thank you," he said. "Let me tell them I'm on my way." He returned to conclude the call, then disconnected. "I'm not sure how long this could take."

"It's all right. I had nothing planned for today, and your son has a brand new book to read."

"Okay," he said. "No plastic carrier bags."

She swore she'd heard a hint of playfulness in his voice. "Or porn. Cross my heart." She drew a little X over her heart with her thumb to reiterate.

With that he went over to Martin. "Martin, I have bad news and good news."

He said nothing.

"The bad news is that I have a work emergency that I cannot get out of. I promise we can go to the pictures tomorrow."

He still said nothing, but he looked distinctly disappointed.

"The good news is that you will get to spend some time with your friend Bridget—" His eyes flashed to her as he said her name. "—while I'm busy with this."

His sad demeanour immediately turned around. "Oh my gosh, this is the best day ever!"

She put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh.

"I want you to behave," Mark said. "No snooping around the flat, listen to what Bridget tells you to do, and… behave."

"You've said that," Bridget said. "Go on. He'll be fine."

"Okay." He crouched to kiss his son on the cheek. "I'll see you later."

Martin nodded, his curls bouncing as he did so.

Mark looked up at her. "Thanks again."

She nodded as he stood again. "Go on."

Mark headed out the door, but not before glancing back one last time to look at his son; _honestly_, she thought, _he's acting like he never expects to see him again_.

Once he'd gone, she said, "Well, Martin, it's just you and me. Are you hungry?" Even as she asked she had no idea what she might feed a six-year old boy.

"No, I'm fine thanks," he said. "I have an idea though. Will you read _The Little Prince_ to me?"

She smiled. She should have seen it coming.

They sat on the sofa and started on page one. Unlike the previous time she'd read it to him, he was as quiet as a mouse, didn't ask a single question or make a single comment. He just sat and listened with total focus on and attention to what she was saying. When she got through to the end, she closed the book. It was the first time she'd gone through it cover to cover in some time, and she felt quite choked up about it.

"Dad and I found his planet," Martin said matter-of-factly. "It's pink."

"Well, obviously," she said. "Because of the rose."

He smiled. "Exactly! I had to explain that to Dad."

She was not surprised. "Makes perfect sense to me. So where did you go to look for the planet?"

"Holland Park. We live right next to it."

She knew Mark was well-off, but had no idea he was _that_ well-off. "Ah." She sat back against the sofa. "So are you really only six? You seem so good and so very clever for six."

He nodded. "Almost six and a half," he said. "I can't wait to be seven though."

She thought about the month being March, about his being almost six and a half, and asked, "When is your birthday?"

"November the ninth."

She involuntarily gasped. "Martin, you are never going to believe this," she said, "but that's my birthday too."

"Oh my gosh!" he said. "Really?"

"Yes, here, I'll show you." She jumped up for her purse and dug for her driving licence, then pointed at the line that showed her birthdate. "See, there it is."

He smiled very broadly. "I haven't known anyone with my same birthday before."

"Well, I haven't either. It's definitely very special."

Barely an hour and a half had passed since she'd begun reading, and she didn't know when Mark might return. "What shall we do now?"

"Let's play the disc," he said. "That way we can hear it again and see if this guy does a good flower voice."

She laughed. "More juice?"

"Yes please. Thank you."

She cued up the disc and set it to playing with Martin with the book on his lap for him to follow along, then went into the kitchen for more juice for Martin, and a little something for herself. She sat beside him, put the book partly on her own lap, and carefully handed him his glass.

"I'll be careful," he said without prompting.

Once more they went through the book; the reader did it at a slightly slower pace than she had, so when they were finished she felt very drowsy.

"Bridget," he began, "may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," she said, thinking it might be about where his father was. Martin had been a pleasure to watch over, far better behaved than Magda's brood, but she was beginning to wonder herself.

"Do you have anything good to eat?"

She realised as she looked to the clock that it was approaching six in the evening, and she had no idea when he might have last eaten.

"Hm. Not really," she said, thinking of the Branston pickle, the moulding cheese in the fridge, and the muesli in the cupboard. "I have an idea. Do you like pizza?"

His wide smile said it all. "Pepperoni. Yes!"

She phoned in an order to her favourite place, who quoted her the standard half-hour turnaround time. "There we are, we just have now to wait."

"Bridget?"

"Hm?"

"May I use your toilet?"

He was so solemn and serious that she tried not even to smile. "Of course you may," she said. "I'll show you where it is." To her surprise she felt him take and hold her hand in the walk to the back of the flat. "Here you are. You're okay from here?"

He nodded. She adored his curls and hoped a close-cropped haircut wasn't in his near future.

"All right then," she said. "You know where to find me. Oh. And don't forget to wash your hands when you're done."

"I will. I mean, I won't. I mean…"

She chuckled. "I know what you mean." She closed the door and went back to her kitchen, going through the cupboard on the off-chance she had some biscuits on which to snack before the pizza arrived. She didn't find anything of the sort (making a mental note to pick some up), but she did find a box cake mix. With a grin, she awaited for Martin's return.

"Bridget?" he called from the bathroom. "Help."

For a moment she panicked. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he called back. "I can't reach the faucet."

She chuckled in her relief and went back to the loo, and opened the door. She twisted on the faucet then picked him up so he could wash his hands.

"Dad has a step-stool for me in my washroom," he said.

"That makes sense."

"Bridget?"

"Yes, Martin?" She saw he was finished, and turned off the water, lowered him, and handed him a towel.

"You know, I still think you're a better reader than the guy on the disc."

The child was nothing if not random at times. "Well, thank you very much."

The pizza arrived. She poured him some more juice and for herself, a glass of Chardonnay. Its presence piqued Martin's interest. "My dad likes wine too," he said. "But he drinks stuff so dark you can't see through it."

"Well, everyone's tastes are a little different."

"Bridget?"

"Yes?"

"Is that box on the counter going to be cake for us?"

"It is. I thought when we were finished we might make it together, to celebrate our upcoming half-birthday." She paused. "I mean, provided your dad doesn't come back soon."

"Oh!" he said, then added thoughtfully, "I hope he doesn't come for hours and hours."

…

_Bloody moron_, Mark thought, _getting himself involved in the middle of a scuffle and pulled into Metro with only four days until his hearing_. He'd had to do a lot of hoop-jumping to persuade Detective Inspector Samuelson not to press charges, that his client, Asif, had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had only been trying to break up the fight, both of which he believed to be true, knowing his client's propensity for non-violence. The DI had agreed in the end and had released him into Mark's custody. The entire ride back involved lecturing Asif about the meaning of 'laying low' and 'staying out of trouble'. For his part, his client was extremely penitent and promised to do exactly as told.

He was halfway across town after bringing Asif home when he realised he had yet one more stop to make: to pick up Martin. He sighed heavily and indicated to backtrack in order to head over London Bridge. Not that he wouldn't do anything for his son; he just really, really wanted to go home and have some supper.

He was lucky enough to find street parking once more, and pressed the buzzer to Bridget's flat with some urgency. After some moments he heard Bridget's familiar voice sounding out. "Hello?"

"It's Mark. I'm here for Martin." Belatedly it occurred to him he'd sounded very brusque and discourteous after she'd done him a huge favour. "Hello," he added.

She paused. "I think that was rather backwards," she said, obviously amused. "Come up."

He heard the lock release, and he made the journey up the stairs once more. Before he had a chance to knock on the flat door, however, it swung open to apparently no one.

"Dad!"

He looked down simultaneous to the greeting. It was Martin, of course, or at least he thought it was, but given the disarray of his clothing and the general messiness of such an ordinarily tidy child, he couldn't be sure: the front of his shirt was covered with a fine layer of dusty brown powder and he had a smudge of something that looked suspiciously like chocolate on his mouth. He was grinning like a madman.

"Martin, I asked you to—Oh, hi."

Bridget stopped short upon seeing Mark. She too was covered similarly in that fine brown powder and had chocolate (or something like it) on her chin.

Mark stepped into the flat and closed the door behind him.

"What on earth is going on?" he asked as they all filed up into the sitting room. To his son he directed, "Why are you pulling open the door at random? Anyone could have been out there."

"He heard me buzz you in, and he was excited to see you," said Bridget. "I asked him not to open the door."

"Sorry," Martin said.

"And why do you both look like you're covered in ash?" Mark crouched and wiped the smudge from Martin's lip with his thumb, then, as he rose to his full height, he stuck his sullied thumb into his own mouth enough to clean it off and make a determination. "Chocolate ash," he amended.

"We made a birthday cake," said Martin excitedly.

"But your birthday isn't until November."

"I know!" he said with continued excitement. "But guess what?"

"What?" Mark asked, wishing he had half the boy's energy.

"Bridget has my birthday!"

He furrowed his brow.

"We share a birthday," Bridget explained patiently.

"That's… very nice," Mark said, unsure of how else to respond, and simultaneously feeling all the wearier. Clearly they could not leave right away; to take Martin away before the cake was done would have meant a sullen, pouting child for days to come.

"It just went in the oven," said Bridget, gesturing towards the kitchen. "We weren't sure how long you'd be. I hope that's okay. I mean, I hope it's _all_ okay."

He blinked wearily, pinching at his eyes with his finger and thumb. The scent of baking chocolate cake was starting to drift his way, and he hated to admit it but his mouth began to water. "That's fine," he said. When she said nothing, he looked at her. "Really, it's fine. I'll just have a seat."

"We saved you some pizza, Dad," said Martin.

"Pizza?"

"I hope that's okay too," she said repentantly. "We read the book, listened to the disc, then we were hungry and I didn't think it wise to try to, I don't know, bake a chicken with his brand of help."

Mark felt himself smiling despite everything. "I mean it; it's fine. I—"

He saw then the remnants of their own meal, wine glass at the head of the table, plates with pizza crusts and a scattering of greasy serviettes.

"Oh, sorry," she said, undoubtedly at his stare at the wineglass. "You never said anything about not giving him wine."

He turned his eyes to her, sure there must have been fire shooting from them with the sheepish response she offered:

"Kidding. Why don't I get you the pizza? You look sort of wrecked, and I'll bet you're starving."

He cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you."

"Some wine, perhaps?"

He wanted nothing more, but there was the drive to consider.

"Still have to wait for the cake," she added; his indecision must have been evident.

"Sure."

"It isn't red," she said.

"I'll take anything at this point," he said, slumping down in a chair at the other end of the table, the clean end, and beckoned Martin to come near. When he did Mark proceeded to brush chocolate powder off of him. "So what happened here?" he asked.

"The mixer exploded," Martin said with a grin. "It was cool."

"The mixer did not explode," Bridget corrected from the kitchen as she put a couple of slices on a plate for Mark. "I simply neglected to stir things up a little with a spoon before switching on the power." She came over with the plate and a glass of wine. "I had it warming in the oven until the cake went in, so it should still be good and hot, but let me know."

"Thank you," he said.

As he began to eat, Bridget started clearing the opposite end of the table, dumping the crusts and the serviettes into the trash then placing the plates into the sink. He watched her pull down some fresh plates then bring them to the table before sitting down with her half-empty glass of wine.

"How much longer?" Martin asked just as she had a long sip. She swallowed quickly.

"About twenty minutes."

"Oh," he said, disappointment evident in his voice. "Have you any icing?"

"Mm, don't think so, but I'll look." She drained the rest of her glass, then stood again. She wiped at her face, but amazingly she managed to miss the chocolate on her chin.

"Bridget?"

"Hm?" she asked.

"You've got something on your face."

"What? Where?" She started patting at her cheek.

"If I had to guess, cake batter. On your chin."

She still managed to miss it.

He chuckled then rose from his seat. "Come here."

Out of habit, he supposed, he reached out his hand and brushed at the chocolate with his thumb, much like he'd done for his son. "That's most of it," he said.

She turned bright pink. "Thanks." She reached for a clean serviette—what he should have done in the first place—and got the dried bits of chocolate up from her skin.

"Icing," she said, as if to remind herself what she'd been about to do.

"Yes," Martin agreed. "I'll help."

From his vantage point at the table he watched her peruse through her pantry, Martin looking on eagerly, ready to help if needed, though the only help he could possibly offer was as taster should any be found. _Which_, he thought, _would be just about his reasoning_. However, he hadn't really known Martin to be much of a chocolate enthusiast previously.

"Bad news," said Bridget, poking around in the shelf. "No icing."

"Aww."

"Good news," she added, then reached for something and pulled it down. "Chocolate syrup!"

Martin grinned.

"Do you think that will do?" she asked.

Martin nodded enthusiastically.

"When he can't fall asleep later because of a sugar rush," Mark said in a teasing tone that surprised even himself as he picked up the last of his pizza, "I'll be sure to hand the telephone and your number to him."

"Chuh," said Bridget. "He'll be fine. Won't you? You'll behave when you go home and go to bed when your father says, right?" Martin nodded. To Mark she said, "As if that kid _ever_ misbehaves."

"He does on occasion."

She snorted a laugh. "I'd love to see your definition of 'misbehave'. You should have seen _me_ at his age."

"I did," he said. "Well. Sort of." He picked up his wine and sipped; she looked a bit taken aback. "You were four and I was eight."

"Really?" she asked with a crooked grin.

"Bridget was your friend too?" Martin, whom for a moment Mark forgot was within earshot, looked very surprised. "Why isn't she a friend now?"

Mark felt his face flood with heat. "It isn't that we're not friends, Martin," he said, looking briefly at an equally pink Bridget. "It's just that… we lost touch. We went to different schools, had other friends."

"Plus you're older," Martin said. "Well that's good. She can come over and play with both of us then, right?"

Bridget covered her face with her hand, but Mark quickly realised it was not out of mortification, but a desire to hide her laughter. He smiled too. "Adults don't really play like that, Martin," Mark explained.

"I'd be happy to play with you anytime you like," she said; he swore she did it just to be contrary. "If it's okay with your dad," she added deferentially at his penetrating glare.

She did seem to get on well with Martin; she seemed to make him happier than he'd been in a long time, but was it because she was more like a playmate than a mummy figure? Martin didn't make friends easily, and if she could help draw him out of his shell, why shouldn't he take advantage of that? "Perhaps," he said at last, a half-smile playing on his lips. "After all, I did say that _adults_ don't play like that."

…

Before she could even think about responding to his somewhat offensive statement, to her ears saying she was not a real adult, Bridget was literally and figuratively saved by the bell. "Let me, um, get that," she said, trying to smile, but feeling slightly wounded. _It's one thing to think someone looks down their nose at you_, she thought, _but it's another thing altogether to have it confirmed._

After pulling the cake from the oven, she removed one of the oven gloves then fished for a toothpick and stuck it into the centre. When it came out clean, she smiled proudly. At least she hadn't embarrassed herself by burning the outside to a crisp whilst the inside was still gelatinous. She turned off the oven.

"It looks good," said Martin. She smiled; she doubted he could even see it from his viewpoint.

"Keep back," Mark called. "The oven's hot."

"It smells _really_ good." Martin stood back but stayed within sight of the cake. "You're way more fun than Nanny Alberta."

"Well, it's nice of you to say," she said, slipping off the second oven glove. "I pride myself on being more fun than nannies." She turned to him. "We'll have to wait a few more minutes. It's too hot to eat yet. Why don't you make sure your things are all together, so you won't have to look for them when you go?"

"Oh, okay," he said, then offered a melancholy smile. "I wouldn't want to forget my book."

She went to get some silverware, a knife with which to cut the cake, and a plate on which to put the cake. She ran the knife around the edge then, with the oven gloves on once more, she picked up and flipped the cake pan over.

"Everything all right?"

His unexpectedly close voice startled her, which meant that she lost momentary control of the pan and the cake came out in pieces.

"No," she said, looking down at the mountain of steaming chocolate crumble.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I got up to see what Martin was doing and I thought I'd come and see if I could help. You'd gone awfully quiet."

"I'm fine," she said. "The cake, not so much."

"He won't care," Mark said. "I certainly don't."

She tried to fit the cake back together into its original shape, but she realised quickly it was a futile effort. She sighed. Of course he wouldn't expect perfection from someone who wasn't a bona fide grown-up.

"You made a cake mountain. Excellent."

They looked over and down to see Martin standing with an expression of glee on his face.

"More like a cake volcano," she said at the curls of steam rising from the freshly baked cake before looking up to Mark then back to Martin again. "If you sit down I'll bring Mount Chocolate and the chocolate lava over to the table."

"Okay!" He went to sit. Mark followed.

"Care for some milk?" she asked.

Mark and Martin simultaneously responded in the affirmative, which made her chuckle.

"Three glasses of milk it is."

She brought the milk over first, then the syrup and the forks; as she carried the cake over, she had an idea, one that would probably make Mark Darcy crazy. She grinned thinking about it.

"Mark," she said. "Sit over there. Martin, sit here." She pointed to what was formerly her own seat. He climbed up but stayed on his knees. "I'll sit here." The net result was the three of them encircling the end of the table with optimal reach for Martin with his shorter arms.

"Why?" the two of them asked in tandem.

"Because we are going to excavate Mount Chocolate with our forks after we devastate it with lava."

The sight of Martin's gap-toothed smile warmed her heart, as did the slightly alarmed look on Mark's face. She handed each of them a fork, then picked up the bottle of syrup and started pouring it over the top.

"Well, Martin, Happy Half-Birthday to us," said Bridget as she raised her tumbler of milk. Martin smiled again as he and his father took up their glasses and they touched them all carefully together, so as not to slosh the milk. "Now. Let's dig in."

She took a giant forkful and put it in her mouth with a grin just as Martin did the same. It was delicious and still quite warm. Martin made an approving sound just as Mark scolded him not to talk with his mouth full. Mark also brought a forkful to his mouth, and he could not hide that he too liked the taste.

The cake was not particularly large, and between the three of them they polished off the whole thing in short order, washing it down with their milk. Mark might have initially looked shocked at the suggested method of cake-eating, but in the end he'd joined in almost as earnestly as they had. It should have bothered her more that she hadn't driven him crazy with the suggestion… and that worried her a little.

"Oh my gosh," said Martin, looking almost intoxicated on chocolate and sugar as he sat back in the chair, smudges of syrup around his mouth, cake crumbs down the front of his shirt. "That was really, _really_ good."

"My compliments to the chef," said Mark, leaning over to clean up his son.

She smiled. "Well, thank you."

"Thank _you_," Mark said, "for dinner, dessert, and most of all for taking care of him on such short notice."

She nodded. It had honestly been a pleasure to do so. That worried her, too.

"Do you want any help washing up?" he asked, glancing to Martin, who looked like he might doze off right there in the chair. "I probably should get him home."

"It's all right. I can take care of it."

"Thanks." To Martin, he said, "Come on, son. Time to go home. We have taken enough of Bridget's time today."

"Awww," he said in a slightly whiny tone, the first real hint Bridget had seen of anything resembling defiance or misbehaviour. "Do we have to?"

"Yes, we do."

"But I like it here," he said as he reluctantly got down from the chair. "My voice doesn't echo when I shout."

"Were you shouting?" Mark asked.

"Only when we were singing together," said Bridget. "A round of the happy birthday song while mixing up the batter."

"On with your shoes," said Mark. "Come on, stop dawdling."

The poor kid seemed really dejected, but he did as he was told.

"Bridget?" he asked as he gathered his new book up in his arms.

"Yes?"

"Want to come to the pictures with us tomorrow?"

…

Mark was not sure where this new boldness had come from, but he was sure he was staring with incredulity at the boy. He had never seen his son do anything quite like it, and he would have to talk to him about it when they left.

He glanced up from Martin to Bridget, who looked rather speechless. "Um," she said at last in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. "I think that's probably up to your father."

Now he felt quite conflicted. Vetoing the idea would paint him as the villain of the piece, and he'd been hoping for quality time with his son. But agreeing to her joining them seemed to have more pros than cons: she did seem to have a way with his son; he really seemed to like her; and when he got excited about something he could be a veritable handful, so frankly he would be thankful for the help. There was no reason not to agree, he realised.

"If you're free, you're welcome to join us," Mark said.

She still seemed hesitant, looking at Martin again. "Well, if it's okay with your father, then… sure. I'd love to," she said, then glanced up to Mark once more then back to his son, but not before he noticed the challenge in her eyes, one he didn't quite understand. "I'll see you then."

"Probably early afternoon," Mark said. "We can give you a lift if you need."

"Super. Give me a call in the morning."

"Not too early," Mark said. "Wouldn't want to wake you." Her cheeks flushed pink. "Well. Good night."

"Good night."

"'Night, Bridget!" Martin walked over with his arms outstretched; she crouched down to accept the hug, which was very tight. She looked up at Mark. Her expression bespoke awkwardness.

"Remember what you promised, Martin. About behaving and doing what your dad asks."

"I know," he said. "I will."

She rose to her full height then walked them to the door, waving when Martin turned to see if she was watching them leave.

They headed down the stairs to the car. Martin was quiet the whole time Mark helped get him all buckled in, which was more like his usual self. As Mark sat behind the wheel and engaged the engine, he said, "I thought you understood that you need to ask me before inviting someone along when we go out."

"Oh," he said, a hint of remorse in his voice. "I thought it might be different because she's your friend, too."

To that Mark had no immediate reply. He certainly did not want Martin to think he disliked her, because it was dawning on him that it was certainly not true. "It's always nice to get an okay first from the person with whom you have plans, before you ask someone else to come along."

"Would you have to do that with a mum?"

Martin was always asking about whether or not things were different with a mother in the picture; it always pained him to think that the woman who had borne him had essentially washed her hands of him. Not that he would have necessarily wanted her around, but he had to wonder how her absence really weighed on his young psyche. "Yes," he answered at last. "It's just common courtesy."

"Oh," he said again. After a few moments, he said, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, and now you'll know in future," Mark replied.

Most of the rest of the ride was spent in silence; as they went past Holland Park and Mark indicated to claim their usual spot by the kerb, Martin spoke, which quite frankly startled him a little.

"Dad?"

"Thought you'd gone to sleep," Mark said. "What's on your mind, son?"

"Do you suppose the fox and the rose would have gotten on well?"

"What?" he asked, before he remembered the book his son had in tow. "Oh, in the book?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Well… I'm not sure I've ever given it any thought." He helped Martin out of the car. "The fox and the prince got on well."

"The prince tamed the fox," Martin said as they went in the house.

"I stand corrected," said Mark.

"_And_ the prince tamed the rose."

Mark thought about the story, and wasn't entirely convinced that the rose hadn't been the one to do the taming. "I think with the prince as their common friend, yes. I suppose they would have gotten on well." He helped Martin up onto the chair and out of his shoes before pulling him to his feet. It was not terribly late but the boy was clearly tired after his exciting day, weaving in place as he stood there. He decided to carry his son upstairs to bed.

Surprising Mark yet again, Martin, with his arms around his father's neck, asked in a very sleepy tone close to his ear, "So which one tamed the other?"

He thought about the story, thought about the characters' personalities. "I think the rose would have tamed the fox," Mark said. "After all, the fox seemed eager to be tamed. He wouldn't play with the prince without being tamed."

"Hmmm, yes," Martin said after a few silent seconds. "I agree."

Martin was as good as his word about getting ready for bed without so much as a fuss, though a little Pepto-Bismol was in order since Martin had eaten a little too much cake and was feeling queasy. He tucked his son in and kissed him goodnight, but even as he took care of thumbing through the mail from the day and checking his messages on his laptop, then getting himself ready for bed, he couldn't help but ruminate on his son's query a little, as to who would have tamed whom:

The fox was a sleek, quick creature with a pretty ginger coat, but could be crafty and temperamental, even sometimes dangerous. For all its lush beauty, the rose did have a hidden hazard in the form of its thorns, and often required a good deal of care in order to flourish to its full potential. It was unlikely that one could tame the other, or that they could be friends at all—

Mark chuckled to himself and shook his head. It was only a story, and the very notion of roses and foxes behaving in such a manner, being friends, was absurd. He was just thinking about this far too much.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

After closing the door behind her guests, she leaned back against it and let out a long breath. For as suddenly exhausted as she felt, it might have been two in the morning, but a glance to the clock reveals it was in actual fact barely half past eight.

"Crikey," she muttered to herself.

She took the unused plates and put them away, then gathered up the decimated cake's remains and dumped them into the bin before putting the platter into the sink with the dinner plates and the utensils used in the making of the cake, then sighed again. _Might as well wash them now_, she thought. _They aren't going to wash themselves, and I have a date with a six-year-old tomorrow._

_And his father._

Midway through the washing up her telephone began to ring. She switched off the water then went for the handset.

"Jones."

It took her a moment to place the voice.

"Daniel," she said, reining in her surprise.

"Mmm," his smooth voice purred. "I thought it high time to take out that skirt for a late supper. How do you feel about bringing it out?"

She was elbow-deep in soapy water and probably looked twice as tired as she felt; why did she have such rotten luck? "I, um, I can't," she said. "I… have other plans." _Other plans which involve washing up after a child._

"Come on, Jones," he said. "I can tell your skirt's aching for a good meal."

It was his most convincing, seductive, resistance-melting voice, but after the pizza, the wine and the sugar she knew it was only a matter of time that she crashed and burned most spectacularly. She did not want to turn him down outright, though, as she'd been hoping he'd ring her up for months now. "It _is_ a bit short notice, Daniel," she said. "Perhaps a little more lead time, next time."

"Tease," he murmured. "Until then." He disconnected. She hung up and metaphorically shouted curses to such an unfair world.

The telephone rang again just as she was taking care of the mixer. Her heart leapt, but she resolved to stand her ground if it were Daniel again.

"Hello?" she said in a sultry tone.

"Bridge! You coming out or not?"

Utter confusion struck her once more. It was hard to make out whose voice it was as it was nearly obliterated by a deafening bass and overly loud electronica. At last she ventured a guess. "Tom?"

"Durr!" he said. "Thought we'd agreed to meet at 192."

"Fuck, I totally forgot. I'm sorry. I can't."

The music got quieter; presumably Tom was moving outside in order to better hear. "What was that? You said you can't?" She heard his lighter flick on; he'd gone outside for a smoke.

"I can't," she reiterated. "I'm sorry."

"Why not?" he asked; oddly it reminded her of Martin's petulant voice just before he'd gone. "Oh, don't tell me you met someone."

She laughed. "You could say that. However, he's six."

There was a long beat during which Tom was clearly trying to make sense of what she was saying. "Six? That's a bit young even for you. And, I'm sure, not legal."

She chuckled. "No, no, no. I spent most of the day watching, er, a friend's son when he got called away on a work-related emergency."

Tom made a clucking sound with his tongue. "A friend. Who's this friend?"

"It's no one you know. It's nothing."

"Bridget," he said, the grin on his face evident in his voice. "I didn't know you had a thing for single fathers. Christ. Hope it's a single father."

"I don't have a thing for—look, will you just let it go?" she said impatiently.

"Ohhh, is he there now? Is he sexy? Do you like it when he growls paternally at you?"

"Tom, I'm hanging up."

"Bridge, darling, I'm sorry. You know I just want you to be happy." After a pause, Tom added, "Well, _is_ he sexy?"

"Goodnight, Tom."

She disconnected and sighed again, this time in frustration. _Wouldn't matter if I thought he was sexy or not_, she thought. _I'm nothing more to him than an immature woman best suited as a companion for his kid._

She went to put away the rest of the eggs from the cake-making and spotted the half-empty bottle of wine in the refrigerator. _Pathetic_, she thought. _I turn down a date with Daniel as well as a night out with Tom in order to what, drink alone?_

She grabbed it, popped off the cork, and drank a long glug straight out of the bottle before walking over to her sofa and dropping to sit on it.

Her surprise was unmatched when she awoke to the sound of her telephone ringing. She was bathed in sunlight and still on the sofa. She stood and went in search for the handset, which was where she had left it on the counter. The clock told her it was eleven-thirty. She swore under her breath.

"Yes, hello," she said sleepily as she answered it.

After a beat, a voice spoke. "Did we wake you again, after all?"

As she expected, it was Mark. She couldn't help but laugh lightly. "It's your fault," she said. "Or rather, your son's. I crashed out on the sofa after you left. Must have needed the sleep."

"Oh," he said. "Do you need to cancel?"

"No, no, I'll be fine." She was determined to see it through.

"Great. Martin's looking forward to it," he said. "We'll be there for you shortly after one. Is that okay?"

"It's fine," she said, wondering if his own opinion of her presence was indifference.

"We'll see you then."

"Goodbye," she said, just as he hung up. A flare of annoyance shot through her. _Rude bastard!_

…

Mark made sure Martin had lunch before they set out for the day. As they drove towards Bridget's flat, he noticed Martin was a lot quieter than he would have expected given how happy he'd been about having her accompany them.

For safety reasons Martin always sat in the back seat; it was not ideal for father-son camaraderie but the diagonal portion of the safety belt, even with his booster seat, would have been dangerous for someone of his size if an abrupt stop was needed. "Are you all right back there?" Mark asked, glancing to the mirror, in which he could see his son sitting, glancing downward at his hands.

"Yeah, I guess," he said.

"What's the matter?"

"You didn't let me say hi before."

"You're going to be seeing her in a few minutes."

"I know," he said. "I just really wanted to say hi."

"You're not going to sulk about this all day, are you?"

"No, I'll be fine. Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Before, on the phone, you said I was looking forward to seeing Bridget today."

Mark was a bit puzzled. "And you are, aren't you?"

"Mm-hmm," he said. "But why aren't you?"

"What makes you think—" His son, who had always been so like him in so many ways, logical and a bit too smart for his smattering of years, had deduced that because he hadn't included himself in the statement meant that it didn't apply to him. "Of course I'm looking forward to today. I always look forward to spending time with you."

"But what about Bridget? Don't you like her?"

He didn't care to be cross-examined by his six-year-old son about whether he did or did not like Bridget Jones, in the manner of his own mother's queries. "If I didn't like her," he replied, "would I have agreed to let her join us?"

"She's nice," Martin said. "And she's pretty. And she doesn't talk to me like I'm stupid, like that Natasha lady."

"I know," he said, sighing at the remembrance of their one disastrous dinner together with Natasha.

"I just want you to be friends, too," Martin said. "Like you used to be."

"I know," he said again quietly. He parked the car, then took out his mobile and phoned Bridget upstairs.

"Hello?"

"We're here," Mark said.

"Oh."

"You'll forgive me for not coming to the door. Martin's all settled in."

"She can sit back here with me!" Martin said loudly, in the obvious hope she'd heard him.

Bridget chuckled. "Tell him that sounds fine. I'll be right down."

Within a few minutes she emerged from her building. Mark rose from the car to get the door for her as she approached. Her blonde hair was down and softly waved; she was wearing jeans, trainers and, under her light jacket, a blue cotton shirt that really accentuated her eyes. Mark smiled and pulled open the door for her. "Thanks," she said coolly. When she saw Martin, she beamed a smile towards him. "Hi!"

"Hi, Bridget!"

With a grin, she began to buckle herself in as he closed the door. He then resumed his own seat behind the wheel, started up the car then pulled away and into traffic. In the hopes of salvaging himself in his son's eyes he said, "We're really glad you could join us."

He glanced up to see Martin's reaction (which was, as expected, pleased), but as he did he noticed he could just see the edge of her face in the rear view mirror. Sceptically she asked, "Really?"

He nodded. "Absolutely."

She seemed to realise then that he could see her just as she met his eyes in the reflection. "Oh," she said, then turned her eyes and attention to Martin again, asked him how he'd been the night before, if he'd done as he'd been told.

"Yes," he said. "But I had a really sore tummy."

"Too much cake," offered Mark.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "You didn't puke, did you?"

He laughed. "No, Dad gave me that pink stuff." He giggled again. "'Puke'. That's a funny word."

"It is a funny word," she agreed. "Puke, puke, puke."

This sent Martin into gales of laughter. Mark felt his jaw tense. He did not want his son to march around chanting 'Puke' everywhere he went.

"But you know," said Bridget, "it's not really a nice word to say all over the place. Some people hear that word and it makes them want to, well, puke."

He laughed, but nodded. "I shouldn't just go around saying it."

"There you are. I knew you'd figure it out."

He glanced up again and saw that they were both looking quite happy… and he watched in amazement as Martin reached and grabbed her hand as if they were about to cross the street. Bridget seemed pretty surprised too, but turned her hand to accept it.

"I like that we're friends," said Martin.

"I like that, too," she said. Her eyes flicked up and saw Mark looking at them once more. She smiled at Mark then shrugged a little. He smiled in return.

When they arrived, Martin took his father's hand for the walk into the cinema, but he also was quick to reclaim Bridget's. As they went in, he bought their tickets, and asked her to go and claim some seats for them while he diverted with Martin to the lavatory. "Sure," she said.

"Not too close," he said.

"Of course not."

"And in the centre, if possible."

"I _have_ been to the pictures before," she said with a grin.

As he led his son to the toilets, he passed an elderly couple. While he waited at the door for Martin, he noticed the older lady smiling fondly at him. "I don't mean to stare," she said, "but your little boy reminds me of ours at that age." Mark smiled. "And if he's anything like our son was, you and your wife must be very proud of him."

"Pardon?"

"Your wife. His mum. Very pretty lady, though he favours you in looks. Handsome boy."

"Oh," said Mark, realising she meant Bridget. "Well, you're very kind. Thank you."

Martin emerged with damp hands that spoke of his washing them. "I'm done! Let's go find Bridget," he said excitedly. Mark had just enough time to catch a look of embarrassment on the woman's face before Martin tugged his hand to walk away.

Once in the cinema, they saw that the place was quite filled in. He found Bridget had chosen a very good location, and when she saw them come in she smiled and waved them over. Shortly after they sat Bridget leaned over and said, "My turn. Be right back."

As they waited for her to return, Mark realised that there a rather tall man was taking a seat directly in front of where Martin sat, which happened to be in the centre of their three seats. He leaned in as the lights lowered and the previews started. "Martin, can you see all right?"

"Mmm, I can see the top all right."

He exhaled. "Let's trade seats."

"But then I won't be next to Bridget."

Mark tensed his jaw. "How about instead if you sit on my lap?"

"And you'll sit next to Bridget?"

"Yes, Martin, I will."

"Okay," he said with a smile.

…

The scent of the popcorn proved too great a temptation. On her way back from the ladies she found herself snagged up at the snack counter, where she purchased the largest bucket of popcorn they had (the salty kind, figuring they could share) as well as three small drinks (diet cola for herself, Lilt for Martin, and a 7-Up for Mark).

When Bridget returned to the cinema, it was now unfortunately plunged into almost total darkness. She squinted and tried to find her seat, tiptoed until she saw the recognisable outline of Martin's hair, then pardoned herself to pass by the others in the row. "Sorry that took so long," she said, taking her seat. As she did, she realised two things: that Mark had Martin on his lap and was therefore now sitting next to her, and that Mark had a look of utter surprise on his face.

"Planning on feeding the entire Russian army with that?" she heard him ask quietly.

"Oh, popcorn!" said Martin. Bridget and Mark shushed him simultaneously. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Remember," said Mark quietly to Martin as the boy stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Take it easy. I don't have any pink stuff with me."

The film started up, an animated picture about which she'd heard good things; she was surprised that a reserved man such as Mark would have brought his son to see it. It was the sort of film that was funny on two levels; the bits that the children didn't understand went right over their heads to amuse the adults. As the action began, Bridget glanced over and saw the look of delight and wonder on Martin's face. She also could not help but see Mark's expression, slightly confused but intrigued. He noticed her looking at them and furrowed his brows.

"Have some popcorn," she whispered suddenly. "Don't want the two of us making ourselves sick."

He smiled a little, then took a handful of popped kernels and brought them up to his mouth. As the movie continued, she noticed that he and his son both picked at the barrel of popcorn, not as if she hadn't had her own fair share.

After the popcorn and drinks were gone Bridget felt fingers on her hand; it was Martin, who apparently wanted to continue to hold her hand in that friendly way he had. She thought it was sweet, though did wonder if maybe he didn't have a little bit of a crush on her. Because his reach was not very great, though, she ended up moving her arm over; consequently her arm and the back of her hand ended up partly on Mark's leg. If it bothered him, he didn't show it.

It was a very funny, very entertaining film. Some of the jokes intended to amuse the adults in the crowd made her laugh out loud, and inevitably she would glance over to see how Mark was reacting. He managed to look amused and scandalised all at the same time, which made the jokes that much funnier to her. Martin really seemed to love the film, and as they enjoyed it together, something very important dawned on her: Mark actually was a really good father. She had already known it to the extent that Martin was such a kind, thoughtful, well-behaved child; surely that was Mark's influence. But to watch them together—the tender way he held his child in order for him to better see the screen, how everything the night before had hinged on whether or not Martin's needs were taken care of—spoke of devotion and unconditional love. She had never seen Martin be outright disobedient (though was sure it must have happened sometimes), but based on what she had seen in their interactions, she was sure it never came down to shouting. For Mark being somewhat of a boring stuffed shirt, he at least had his parenting skills as a redeeming quality.

"Wow," said Martin, hopping down from his father's lap at the conclusion of the film. "That was the best thing I've ever seen in my whole life, _ever_. I can't wait until we can buy it to watch at home. What did you think, Bridget?"

"I thought it was very good," she said. "Really hilarious."

"The best you've ever seen in your life?"

"Mmm, it's surely up there near the top of the list," she said. "But I've had more than five times as much life as you have. Mark?" She turned to him with a smile on her face. "What about you? Was that the best thing you've ever seen in your whole life?"

…

The film was not what had been occupying most of his thoughts at the cinema that day. He had enjoyed the picture well enough, had been a little surprised by some of the borderline risqué jokes and references in the film, but mostly he had been thinking what an enigma Bridget had turned out to be. In his experience, the women he'd known had been using Martin only as a means to win Mark over. Bridget, though, didn't seem to give a whit about impressing anyone, least of all Martin's father; in fact, she seemed to relish sparring with him when the occasion called for it, though it was never mean, always offered as a challenge. Mark could not deny, though, that it was clear she genuinely enjoyed spending time with Martin.

He became aware, though, that an answer was expected of him, so he said, "Not bad at all," he said. "And I must claim more than six times the life as you've had, son."

Martin shook his head. "Can't think of anything that could be better."

He smiled and thought, _Oh, to be six._ "I'll ask you in thirty years' time if you feel the same way."

"I will," Martin said confidently. He saw Bridget stifle a laugh.

They rose and headed towards the exit; Martin started to run ahead of them, so Mark called for him to wait.

"To be that confident again," Bridget said. "Knowing without a doubt how you'll feel about something thirty years from now. I can't seem to stick to my convictions on things beyond a week."

"Such as…?"

She looked up at him as if surprised by the question. "Well, lots of things."

"Can you be more specific?"

She didn't answer, and he thought in her exaggeration that she would likely not. With his eye on Martin, he became otherwise occupied. When she started speaking again it surprised him.

"Nothing I really want to talk about," she said. "You already think I'm a chain-smoking booze hound." It was delivered in a playful sort of tone, but there was an edge to her voice that revealed a nugget of truth, that the words he'd spoken to his mother, words she'd overheard, had cut her deeply.

"Changing one's convictions," he said carefully, looking to her, "is easy to do when new evidence is presented that strongly refutes previous beliefs."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "Are you saying you _don't_ think I'm a chain-smoking booze hound?" she asked, a sense of daring in her eyes.

"I'm saying that my data sample has increased enough—yes," he said, interrupting himself. "I am saying that."

Her brows shot upwards. "Even though I do smoke and drink."

"All things in moderation," he said.

"Even moderation?" she retorted.

He laughed as Martin came back to them and took his father's hand, tugging down hard. "Dad, I have to go. Kind of bad."

"Right," he said. Looking at Bridget, he asked, "How about we meet you near the exit door?"

"Sure," she said. "I hear nature calling, too."

Their group split apart and as Mark took Martin to the lavatories again Martin asked, "Dad? What does nature sound like?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, Bridget said she heard nature calling, but I couldn't hear anything."

Mark chuckled. "Bridget was using a polite term for… having to go, kind of bad."

"Oh," he said, then grinned and laughed too.

They finished their business in the men's room and returned to the exit door, but there was no sign yet of Bridget. After a few minutes, Martin started to look visibly agitated. "What if she went without us?"

"It's all right," Mark said soothingly. "She hasn't gone without us. It's a long walk from here to her flat." He then added, "Ladies often take a little longer in the loo."

"Why?"

Mark really did not want to get into the biological differences between men and women that usually necessitated a longer loo visit for the latter, so he said, "Well, sometimes they like to stop and... brush their hair."

"Oh," said Martin. "But her hair already looked nice."

"It did," Mark agreed. "But—"

Mark could say nothing more, as Martin spotted Bridget at that moment and called for her. "Here we are!"

She smiled, putting her handbag back onto her shoulder. "Hi," she said.

"Your hair looks nice," offered Martin.

She looked a bit puzzled. "Thanks," she said. "Your hair looks nice, too."

As they exited the building, Mark watched as Martin took her hand again, then reached for his own. "That was fun, Martin," said Bridget. "Thanks for having me along." She looked to Mark as she said it. Mark smiled politely and nodded.

"I'm really glad you could come," said Martin.

For the ride home, Martin insisted that she occupy the back seat with him again. She did, but not five minutes into the drive he'd nodded off, leaning up against her.

"It's a lot more excitement than he's used to," said Mark.

"It's okay," she said. "It's definitely more excitement than I'm used to."

He smiled, thought about their previous conversation, considered their initial meeting at New Year's and realised there was some unfinished business to attend to. "Bridget, for how I behaved at the Turkey Curry Buffet, for what I said about you—I am truly sorry."

She was silent. After a lane change he glanced up and at her in the mirror, saw that she looked slightly torn. "Apology accepted," she said at last. "My father told me… well, why that time of year is not a good one for you, and I'm sorry for that, I really am."

She did not need to say more. Of course her parents knew about what had happened, being friends with his own. "Thank you," he said, even as he thought (and not for the first time) Martin was probably better off without her influence in his life.

"For what it's worth, I'd say I was sorry for having a drink at my parents' party, but really… can you blame me for having one?"

He smiled, found himself chuckling a little. "I do seem to recall having a glass of wine, myself."

"I probably did go a bit overboard on New Year's Eve, but that's to be expected."

"Martin and I crashed out asleep before ten."

Instead of looking like she pitied him, she had a happy yet wistful expression on her face. "I bet he was so sweet and eager to see in the New Year," she said. "And so disappointed to have missed it."

"After we woke up, we had a countdown at eight in the morning," he said. "We figured it was turning the New Year somewhere."

"Oh, Hollywood," she said.

"Yes, that was exactly what I said to him. He was very excited."

He saw her smile, then look down to Martin. "He's a great kid," she said, reaching up to comb lightly through his unruly hair with her fingernails.

In that moment he saw Bridget in an entirely different light—a more maternal, compassionate, caring light—and he looked away and back to the road. "Yes," he said belatedly. "I have very few complaints."

"I am surprised to hear you have any at all," she said in a teasing tone.

"I suppose not many six-year-olds enjoy their vegetables, nor want to get up to go to school."

"Mm, true," she said. "I don't know if this is something you hear a lot of, so I'll say it: you're really good with him. I can tell he really loves you and respects you."

To that Mark did not now know to respond. She was right; it was not something he heard frequently except from his own mother and father, and he was touched to hear it. "Thank you," he said, though it felt quite inadequate.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"I'm not embarrassed," he said. "But you're right, I'm not used to hearing that, so…" He trailed off.

"You don't know how to take it as a compliment."

He smiled. "Perhaps that's it."

They were soon in front of her building. She was apparently trying to find a way to extricate herself without waking him. "No, please wake him and say goodbye, or he'll be very upset when he does wake," Mark said. At her confused look, he added quietly, "He has some… abandonment issues."

She looked very sad. "Oh." She turned and shook his shoulder gently. "Hey, Martin. We're here."

"Huh? Where?"

"At my house. I have to go now. I wanted to say goodbye."

"Oh," he said. As best he could with his safety belt on, he reached out to give her a hug. "Oh. Dad. I really have to—I mean, hear the call of nature."

He started to chuckle, but tried to hide it. "Right now?"

"Yes."

"Bridget, would you mind terribly if we came up to use your… loo?"


	5. Chapter 5

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1. Where you see -this-, imagine you're seeing strike-through. This site doesn't allow the html code, which is stupid.

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

Considering the alternative, a rather wet mess in the back seat of Mark's very nice car and a very unhappy little boy, she said, "Of course I don't mind." They got up and out of the car; she let them in, and with due haste they went up the stairs and to her flat.

Upon arriving to the top of the stairs, she noticed that there had been a delivery for her while she'd gone, a very pretty basket of spring flowers done up in cellophane. Given the nature of the emergency she felt it best to get them all into her flat and figured she could inspect the card once Martin had been herded off to the toilet. She turned the key in the lock and let them in, then grabbed the bouquet.

"Those are pretty," Martin said as they went up into the flat. "They're for you?"

"Yes," she said, just as Mark said,

"Don't be nosy."

"You know where the washroom is, right?" asked Bridget.

Martin nodded, then ran to the back of the flat.

She undid the cellophane wrapping and went for the card. She opened it:

_For a spot of cheer in a sick skirt's life. Is it well enough for dinner tonight? Call me. Daniel._

She felt a rush of adrenaline shoot through her and a blush stain her skin; his interest in her was what she'd been craving since she'd first laid eyes on her rakishly handsome, bad-boy boss, but his timing couldn't have been worse.

"Are you all right?"

Mark. She looked up. "Oh yes, fine," she said, folding the card closed and setting it down.

"Dad!" called Martin.

"The sink," said Bridget at his slightly alarmed look. "He can't reach it to wash his hands."

"Oh," Mark said, then went to the back of the flat.

A few minutes later Mark re-emerged with his son. Mark looked a little embarrassed, however, and held something in his hand. "We had to move this to keep it from getting wet," he said, holding the object up to give it to her. As he placed it into her hand, she realised immediately both what it was and why the embarrassment: it was the folded pair of underwear she'd brought with her into the bathroom while getting dressed, then had forgotten about and had grabbed a second pair.

"Thanks," she said, stuffing the silken panties into her pocket.

"They're really pretty," Martin said. "Nothing like mine or Dad's boxers."

"I'm afraid Martin's curiosity got the better of him," Mark said, positively crimson now.

"Oh my God," she said, thoroughly mortified, covering her face with her free hand. _At least they were clean_, she thought, _or wasn't a lacy see-through bra, instead_.

"I'm sorry," Mark said.

"No, don't apologise," she said. "I'm the one who should apologise."

"You're not required to keep your flat child-safe," he said with a smirk.

"So did the flowers come from your boyfriend?" Martin's innocent though oddly worried-sounding voice asked, cementing her mortification.

"Um," she said, looking from Mark to Martin, "sort of."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"_Martin_," said Mark in a clipped tone.

"Sorry," Martin said.

After an awkward pause, Mark said, "Well, now that we've all had our requisite amount of humiliation for the day, we should probably head for home."

She laughed despite said humiliation. "Out of the mouths of babes," she said. She realised he was looking at her, almost as if waiting for her to say something more, or as if he wanted to say more himself.

"Dad," asked Martin uncertainly, "are we going?"

Mark looked to his son, then to Bridget again. "Well, if Bridget doesn't mind, we could stay a bit longer."

She voiced no objection because she was too busy wondering why on earth Mark would suddenly want to stay. Of course Martin thought staying was fantastic, but it put a slight crimp in her plans to contact Daniel to accept the dinner date. She didn't have much time to contemplate that, either, because it occurred to her, particularly after Mark's reminder, that she did have items inappropriate for young eyes just waiting to be discovered around the flat, and knowing Martin's special kind of prodigy, he would find them faster than she could.

She remembered that she had also been given a mock-up of an upcoming release called _Teddy Knows Best_, so she dug into her bag and asked, "Martin, I have something you might like to read."

"Is it another story about the prince?" he asked, hope imbuing his voice.

"Unfortunately, it isn't," she said. "I hope you'll like it all the same. You have to be very careful with it, because it's sort of just… pasted together."

"I can be really careful," he said solemnly. "Like with the juice."

"Like with the juice," she echoed. "Great. You can sit over here on the sofa."

He climbed up and got comfortable as she opened up the book to place on his lap. Within a few seconds he began to read aloud.

"Oh," said Bridget as he did. In a hushed voice, she said, "I forgot about that."

He chuckled. "Yes, he still needs to read out loud to himself, particularly when it's a new book."

"That makes sense. Maybe we should… sit over there."

They took a seat at the dining room table, two chairs facing one another; Mark still had a good view of his son when needed. He was still regarding her with a great deal of consideration and a slight smile playing on his lips. It was, she thought, not an unattractive look for him.

"So," she said, eager to keep conversation flowing, "I was four and you were eight."

He chuckled once more. "That fateful date with a paddling pool. Yes. It was my birthday party, of all things."

That she did not know. "Is it really true that I was running around with no clothes on?" As soon as she said it she regretted it, and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. However, his only reaction to her gaffe was that his smile got a little more tender.

"It is true," he said as Martin read on. "Though you were wearing your pants."

"Was I?" This part of the story she had also not heard.

"Indeed," he said. "You weren't completely immodest. I recall they matched your dress. Pink, I believe." He had a scary memory for little details. "I also recall that even then you had a fondness for a great big pile of chocolate cake."

At this it was her turn to laugh. "Really? Well, never let it be said I don't have very definite opinions about certain things."

"I don't think anyone who knows you would dream of saying you don't."

…

Mark wondered if his latest statement wasn't a good example of the verbal diarrhoea that he had once accused her of having. She didn't seem offended, though, and in fact offered him one of her smiles, a smile he found he was becoming quite fond of seeing. He wasn't sure what it was exactly that had caused him to want to stay but he was pleased that he had, that they had a little time to talk one to one, as adults.

"You know," he said, "you're pretty good with Martin. I can't say I've ever seen him warm to anyone the way he's warmed to you."

"That's very nice to hear, considering I have no parental experience whatsoever. In fact, I always thought I would probably be a lousy mum, leaving my baby behind in a shop or in a trash bin or something."

He smiled a little. "I think everyone expecting a child has that fear," he confided. "I think I had quite a few nightmares about it myself."

"Surely not you."

He nodded. "Only, you know, courtrooms, not shops."

At that she laughed. "Oh, God. That's pretty funny." After a beat, she asked, "So did… _she_ have that fear, too?"

He knew to whom Bridget was referring. "If she did, she never said anything. I figured she must have, that some sort of maternal instinct would have developed in those nine months, but the quickness with which she left…." He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I don't really want to talk about it."

"No, I'm sorry for even bringing it up. It's none of my business."

"It's not that," Mark said. "I just don't want…" He trailed off, looking pointedly in the direction of his son. "…to hear."

"Oh." She looked so sad and sympathetic, and said again, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he said. "I've accepted that she's not around, and in fact, I'm not sure I'd want her around, but he…" He trailed off.

She nodded. "He's curious to know what he's missing."

_That is it exactly_, he thought. In that moment, in considering not only her pretty features but sensitive and genuine nature and immediate kindness in every situation he'd had with her, he thought that only someone not in possession of their faculties could think she needed help in finding a partner, a man; like her mother, perhaps, or like himself at New Year's. He thought of the flowers she'd brought in and left sitting on the entryway table, and felt an inexplicably intense envy of whoever had sent them to her.

"Yes," he said at last.

She offered him a smile. "You know," she said, "I feel I owe your son a great big thank you."

"Why?"

"Because he helped to bring about this truce of sorts."

"Very true." He smiled in return.

"Feel like I owe _you_ an apology, actually." She rested her elbow on the table, put her chin in her hand. "You're not at all like I first thought you were."

"Dare I ask what that was?"

She laughed. "I'd rather not say. Suffice to say, it left me bound and determined to get a rise out of you."

He made a dismissive sound. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "You didn't get a rise out of me."

"Chuh," she said with a chuckle. "Well. I guess I'll just have to try harder. Maybe enlist your son to help." She winked.

"Now I'm in real trouble."

"Finished," said Martin, who had appeared at their side, book in hand.

"Oh!" said Bridget. "So what did you think?"

He pulled a face. "I didn't think it was very good. Teddy is kind of an idiot."

She laughed unabashedly. Mark felt himself smiling. "I'll be sure to pass that on."

"Dad?" Martin asked.

"Yes?"

"I'm getting hungry, and there's a pub downstairs. Maybe we could all just go. Please?"

He looked to Bridget, who looked undecided until she seemed to come to an abrupt decision. "Yes," she said. "That'd be nice."

"You don't have previous plans?" Mark asked, thinking of her sort-of boyfriend.

"Nope," she said, looking a little smug. "None at all."

They were seated at the pub just as it opened. Martin was the perfect little gentleman, and didn't seem to mind that he was only sitting next to Bridget at their circular corner table. He ate all of his half-size order of fish and chips, drank his milk and asked for more, and graciously accepted that there would be no dessert because he had to get home to get his things ready for school the next day. Mark took care of the bill, which he thought was the least he could do given that his son had invited her along.

"And you must be in…" She paused, counted on her fingers. "Year One?"

Martin nodded.

"And you're enjoying it?"

He shrugged. "It's kind of boring. It's stuff I know already."

She grinned. "It'll pick up. Well. I have to work in the morning too, and with that long walk upstairs…"

They slipped out from behind the table, walked out the door and to the street together. She crouched down to give Martin a hug, and surprised Mark by planting a peck on the boy's cheek. "You have a good day at school. A good week."

"And you have fun at work," Martin said in return.

She laughed. "I'll do my best." She stood upright, turning her eyes to Mark. "Thanks again."

"Of course," he said, his voice a bit brusque, which surprised even himself.

"Oh, sorry, I hope it was okay for me to do that."

"No, sorry, that's fine. He certainly didn't object." He cleared his throat. "Well. As you said. Long walk upstairs."

She grinned. "Yes. Goodnight, Mark."

"Goodnight, Bridget."

After a short pause, he reached out for his son's hand, and they headed for the car. He didn't look back, but for some reason he was sure that her eyes were on them.

…

It was a sweet vignette, watching Mark walk hand in hand with Martin, and she was transfixed watching them, holding the building door slightly ajar, until Martin climbed into the car and Mark crouched to get him buckled in. As he did, she snapped back to reality, ducked into her building, up the stairs and into her flat.

She returned to find her answerphone flashing. She smirked, betting that it was Daniel Cleaver. A quick check of the answerphone message confirmed it.

"Jones, if you think playing hard to get will work… you're right. Friday night, dinner, you and me. And you can't possibly claim you don't have enough lead time for this. Oh. As it has likely died from starvation by now, the skirt's optional."

The ploy had worked exactly as she'd planned, and confirmed the adage: _the less you seemed interested in a man, the more interested he seemed to be in you._

The week seemed to drag on for ages, exchanging coy looks across the office with Daniel and engaging in some light, innuendo-laden banter via instant messaging, but otherwise remaining cool and professional towards one another. On Monday and Thursday they shared a lift together at the end of the day, which was torturous as they were not alone, and he kept giving her looks that were impossible to misinterpret.

She left work ten minutes early on Friday so that she could get home and get a head start on date preparation. She had at least managed to fix a time and a place; he'd apologised profusely for a last-minute late meeting that had cropped up, and had begged her to forgive him and just to meet him there at the appointed hour. She thought it a bit unusual, but agreed.

On her way down to the taxi, she was met by one of her fellow building residents, Vanessa. "I received this by mistake on Wednesday," she said, handing Bridget a small envelope, "and kept meaning to bring it up to you."

She scrutinised the envelope. The printing was very tidy; so tidy, in fact, she was convinced at first that it was a printed computer handwriting font. The return address was unfamiliar. "Thank you," Bridget said, then tucked it into her handbag. "I must be off. Date."

"Oh, good luck!" Vanessa said with a grin. "You look _fantastic_."

She grinned. It was her favourite little black dress, satiny and well-fitting with a low-plunging neckline. "Thanks."

The restaurant was one with which she was not familiar. It was a small place called La Cantina which unsurprisingly served Italian cuisine; from a quick scan over the layout, it was evidently designed for privacy amongst the clientele. The atmosphere was lovely, cosy, with warm amber lamps indirectly lighting the place. She approached the maître d' with a smile. "Hi. I'm not sure if my date's here yet." Her eyes flitted down, trying to read the reservation list. "'Cleaver, table for two' is probably how you have it."

"Ah, yes, right this way. Signor Cleaver phoned to say he would be running a little later than he expected, but to bring you to your table and to please give you whatever you like, a glass of wine, a starter. You will please just let me know."

The faint warning bell that had begun to ring when Daniel had mentioned the late meeting started to get louder at this latest development. "Okay, thank you," she said graciously as she followed him to what she reasoned must have been the most remote table in the place, hazily lit with a shining candle in the centre. It was one of those circular corner tables that reminded her, oddly enough, of the one she'd shared at the Globe with Mark and Martin the previous weekend, albeit on a smaller scale. "Um, a glass of your house white would do just fine."

"I will have that right out for you."

The man was as good as his word and set the glass down before her. "Excuse me," she said as he did. "Are you very familiar with… Signor Cleaver?"

"We have been acquainted a long time, yes," he said, beaming a smile.

"Does he come here often?"

"A long time," the man repeated, then nodded. "If you'll pardon me."

She picked up the wineglass and took a sip. It was really very good, but she could not help think of the maître d's dodge on her question, could not ignore her gut feeling on being brought to this little out-of-the-way place, as nice as it was.

"Jones." It was Daniel's smooth voice behind her after she was more than halfway through with the glass of wine. "I'm so sorry I'm late." His fingers ran over her shoulder and he bent to kiss her cheek lingeringly. "Mm," he murmured, "You smell marvellous."

"Thanks," she said.

He sat opposite then circumambulated the table to be nearer to her. "Have you been enjoying the wine, at least?"

"Yes, very good," she said, then exaggerated, "Going through it like water."

"There's a girl," he said. "I suspect you're very cute when you're squiffy."

She smiled.

They ordered a starter, a small plate of tortellini which was richly delicious and nearly like a meal unto itself. She also had a second glass of wine, but promised herself to keep her wits about her and not get too sloshed. It was when they were most of the way through the starter after mostly silence and small talk that she felt him slide his hand along her thigh.

"Looking very sexy tonight," he said, grasping her knee, then reached to kiss her cheek again before nuzzling into her neck. "Very sexy," he repeated close to her ear, his fingers moving to just inside her thigh in tantalising circles. "Perhaps we should skip dinner and go straight for dessert."

For an opportunity she thought she couldn't wait to have, it surprised her how much it repulsed her for him to be so blatant about what he wanted… or rather, all that it _seemed_ he wanted. She felt cheap and ill-used, another woman in a long string of conquests; everything about their evening, short as it had been so far, felt rehearsed and insincere. He didn't want her. He just wanted to get into her pants.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Let's skip dinner."

He stopped long enough to kiss her mouth, which she allowed for about a half-second before summoning all resistance and pulling away.

"Daniel," she said. "I mean I want to go home."

He looked momentarily confused. "Your place, then?"

"Yes. But alone."

"Alone," he repeated flatly.

"Yes," she said.

"Bridge, I don't understand. I thought you were interested—"

"I was interested in you having an interest in me, but as more than just a roll in the hay. It's pretty clear what you were trying to do, getting me pissed then trying to seduce me. Exactly how many times has this worked for you?"

He blinked in surprise before he had a chance to fortify himself with a believable half-truth of an answer.

"Right," she said, sliding away from him and getting to her feet. "I'll find a minicab for myself, thanks."

"Jones."

She ignored the plea in his voice as she strode away and out of the restaurant. Where on earth she was going to find a minicab—

_Shit_, she thought. She'd left her handbag on the table.

With as much dignity as she could muster she turned around to the restaurant. Daniel was standing in the door with her handbag in his hand, holding it out as if a dangling a red cape in front of a bull.

_He'll get the horns if he's not careful_, she thought.

"Let me at least bring you home."

"I'd rather walk," she bristled, snatching her purse back from him.

"It's some distance."

"I don't care."

"Jones. Don't be silly. You've made your feelings quite clear. I'll just take you home, no strings attached. It's the least I can do for buggering up our date."

She thought about it for a moment, then sighed. There weren't exactly taxis passing by in great number here. "Fine," she said resignedly. "I'm sitting in the back seat, though."

He chuckled. "Now there's no need for that. I'm not going to try anything mid-drive."

She supposed he had a point. "Fine," she said again.

The drive was in silence save for the muted volume of the jazz CD he had playing. She could tell in her peripheral vision that he was turning to look at her, but she refused to meet his eye. The cityscape of London had never seemed so interesting.

"Well. Here we are," he said as the car glided up in front of her building.

"Thank you for the lift home," she said, turning to look at him at last. "And the… starter. It was very good."

He nodded. She reached to open her door, but stopped when he said her name.

"What, Dan—?"

She stopped when she jerked back to avoid the lunge he made towards her.

"Daniel!" she said. "Honestly." She pushed the door open then got out, and this time, she was sure to have her purse in hand. She slammed it shut, and he wasted no time in speeding away.

_Didn't even wait to make sure I got inside all right_, she thought as the taillights receded down the street. _Bastard._

It had been her choice to walk away from him, but the whole night made her felt really depressed. He hadn't been interested in her as a person, didn't care about her opinions, her hopes and dreams; he'd just wanted to shag her. She wanted more, and no one ever seemed to want to give her that.

With tears forming in her eyes, she opened her bag for her keys only to discover that they were not there.

_Fuck._

The pub was open, but they'd have no way to let her in. There was nowhere to climb to, even if she were in the right clothing and trainers for the task. She rang the bells on all of the flats, but as it was Friday night, she got no answer. She was disappointed, but not surprised. She leaned up against the building, looked heavenward.

_Fuck_, she thought again, tears of frustration in her eyes.

Standing upright again, she decided to have another go at her bag, on the off-chance the keys were there and she had simply overlooked them the first time. It was a futile stab at hope, as the bag was not very large, and the chance she just hadn't seen them was slim to none; in fact, she was fairly sure she had left them on the table just inside the flat, but she looked anyway.

She did not find the keys, but she did find the curious little envelope Vanessa had brought her on her way out for the night. She pulled it from the bag, slipped a fingernail under the edge to open it. It was a little card. On the front it said, in large majuscule letters, THANK YOU.

She opened it, and felt fresh tears in her eyes at the primitive scrawl within, but for an entirely different reason.

_Dear -Brigit- Bridget._

_Thank you very much for the book and for reading it to-o- me. I had -alot- a lot of fun with you. I hope we can play -agen- again some time. OK?_

_Your friend,_  
_Martin_

She looked at the note and smiled even as tears clouded her eyes; such a thoughtful sentiment from such a sweet little boy. With the corrections to the text and the careful penmanship on the envelope, she could only imagine that his father helped him to prepare this card. She wiped under her eyes, then felt herself really start to sob._ Dinner date gone horribly wrong, feel like piece of meat, locked out of building,_ she thought, cataloguing her failures, _and meeting the perfect gentleman… who just happens to be a few decades too young for me._ The last part of her thought set her to laughing through her tears, and she dropped the note back into her purse along with its envelope, then brushed the dampness away.

It was then she heard her name. Surprised, she looked up in the direction of the sound, and saw a tall man in a finely tailored suit walking towards her. As the streetlight cast its glow upon him, she realised that man was Mark.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 6.**

It was a route he rarely took, but driving home from a business dinner with an assortment of colleagues brought him past Bridget's building. His eye had been caught by the blonde woman in the short black dress just outside the entrance to her building. A split-second after spotting her, he realised that the woman was in fact Bridget, so he turned the car around, parked it, then strode to where she was. He had never quite seen her looking so elegant: her hair was swept up in a twist, with deliberate curled tendrils framing her face; her dress came just to above her knee and was of a shiny black fabric that flattered her curvy shape. She had on shoes with a higher heel on them than he'd ever seen her wear, which accentuated her legs quite nicely.

It was her expression, however, that caught most of his attention. She was clearly upset; he could see her shoulders moving with soundless sobs, watched as she raised a hand to wipe wetness from her cheek.

"Bridget?"

Her head snapped up; she was obviously as surprised to see him as he was to see her. "Mark!" she said, her mouth dropping into a slight O shape as she tried to surreptitiously dry her tears more quickly. Despite crying, her makeup, while not perfect, appeared to be amazingly intact. "What in the world…? What are you doing here?"

"Believe it or not, I was just passing by on my way home," he said. "Saw you standing around out here. Is everything all right?"

She nodded and tried to offer a smile, but the façade quickly crumbled and she began to cry once again. "Sorry," she said, wiping at her cheeks again. She then started to rub her bare upper arms with her hands; she was probably chilled in the night air. "It's just been an awful night, and to top it off, I'm locked out of the building."

"You tried ringing up your neighbours?"

"Durr," she said with a smile.

"Hm. Well, let's see what we can do here." He reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet.

"What, do they issue barristers master keys to every building in the city?"

At this he laughed. "No. I thought perhaps I could have a go with a credit card." He pulled out his wallet, then, after a moment's consideration, slipped the jacket off. "Here, put this on. You're cold."

She looked like she might be about to contradict him, but instead accepted the jacket with a quiet, "Thank you," then slipped into it. The sight of her with his jacket on made him chuckle.

"Not a good look for me," she said.

"Not with sleeves down past your fingertips, no," he said with a grin.

That got her to smile.

He pulled out the Diners Club UK card from the back of his wallet, then crouched down in front of the lock and slipped the card in about where he thought the latch might be. It was likely not a deadbolt mechanism; however, he was having absolutely no luck getting it to trigger open.

"Mark?"

"Hm?" he asked, working the card back and forth.

"You don't have any experience with breaking and entering, do you?"

He turned to look up at her, saw her fighting back a smile. He sighed in an exaggerated manner. "It's true, I don't. You?"

She shook her head.

"I have a key."

This third voice startled Mark and at the sound of it he sprung up and to his feet. It was an older man with a frizzy, greying beard and an odd plaid deerstalker cap despite it being well into spring.

"Oh, Mr Ramdas, thank God. I've locked myself out."

"No worries, sweetheart," he said, turning his key in the lock and opening the door. "This your friend?"

"Mm-hm," she said; the smile she gave to him was full and genuine; he found it very attractive, indeed. "Want to come up for—oh, can you come up, or do you need to get back to Martin?"

"Alberta's fully recovered and has him for the night." They all started heading up the stairs to her top floor flat. "So, am I safe to put the card away?"

"Yes, Mr Ramdas has a key. He's the building superintendent."

Within a few minutes the flat door was likewise opened, and she thanked him profusely for his providential appearance. Mr Ramdas smiled, took off his hat, and bid them goodnight.

"And Mark," she said as they entered the flat, "thank you, too."

"What for?"

"Moral support," she said, "the use of your jacket, and attempting to pick a lock for me. And oh yes. For trying to protect me."

"What?"

"From Mr Ramdas. I mean, you didn't know who he was at first."

He chuckled. "It really was nothing."

Again she looked like she might have a further retort to offer, but instead simply smiled. "Right. Coffee. But first, your jacket, else I'll get something all over the sleeves."

After stepping out of the shoes and making a comment about the presence of the keys on the table just inside the flat door—"Just as I suspected," she said as she pointed accusingly at them—she slipped out of the jacket, revealing the dress to him again, this time in full light. It hadn't been obvious how low the front came down when they'd been outside, and he found himself looking a little too long at her chest before tearing his eyes away in what felt like an overly comical manner. She chuckled but blushed a little, handing him the jacket, which he donned and buttoned.

"Coffee."

He followed her into the kitchen, hovering around a little writing desk upon which sat armfuls of mail and magazines as she put the kettle on.

"Oh," she said. "I got Martin's note today." He watched her measure out spoonful after spoonful of coffee into the press, saw a smile light her otherwise sombre face as she focused on the task at hand. "It was the one _nice_ thing that happened tonight."

He wondered what had taken it so long to get to her when he'd put it in the mail on Monday afternoon, but he didn't think it important enough to ask. "I've tried to instil in him the importance of showing how much you appreciate the things other people do for you."

The fond smile did not fade. "A good thing," she said, then looked to him. "I'd just read it right before you found me. It made me blubber like a baby. After crying about my rotten luck."

He grinned. "I'm glad its arrival served to brighten things up for you."

"It did," she said, pulling down a package from the cupboard. Her voice was lacking its usual verve. "I hope you'll tell Martin too."

"You're welcome to tell him yourself," Mark said.

"Biscuit?" she asked, opening the package.

"No, but thank you," he said.

She set the biscuits down and resumed the previous conversation. "I would love to." As the kettle rumbled to a boil, she switched off the heat, picked up the kettle and poured water into the press. As she finished pouring he realised her shoulders were shaking again with silent sobs; he came and took the kettle's handle from her then set it down on the cooling hob.

"Hey," he said, turning her at the shoulder; at the look on her face, he folded her into a reassuring hug. "It's all right. You're safe at home now." After a pause, he asked tenderly, "Someone didn't… hurt you, did they?"

He felt her shake her head. "Not physically, anyway."

They stood in a silent embrace for many minutes—he hadn't realised until just then how petite she actually was—before he had the nerve to ask, "Do you mind my asking what happened?"

"Let's just say the fuckwit who sent those flowers is, well. A fuckwit."

He recalled the sort-of boyfriend she'd mentioned. "Not familiar with the term," said Mark, "but I get the gist."

He heard a quiet chuckle, felt it against his arms. "Sorry." She sighed and sniffed. "I should have known better. I'm such an idiot."

"You aren't," he said reassuringly.

"Come on," she said, pushing back and out of his arms to meet his eye. Some of her old spark was starting to return. "I'm sure even you thought I was an idiot when you first met me, swilling a drink, puffing on a fag, babbling on about resolutions."

"We all have bad days," he said, thinking of his own demeanour on New Year's. "Besides, do you really think I let idiots near my son willingly?"

At this she allowed a real smile, a light little laugh, as she looked down a bit coyly. Seeing it lifted his own spirits; he felt strangely relieved, as well as surprised that the reason for this relief was that she was no longer attached to even a sort-of boyfriend.

"I suppose it's the, er, fuckwit's loss," he added.

She laughed again, which surprised him. "Sorry," she explained with a smirk. "It's just odd to hear you say 'fuck'." As her laughter began to fade, a gentle smile remained; she seemed more like her regular self, though quieter, more contemplative than usual. "Actually, what I said before wasn't completely true. Martin's card wasn't the only nice thing that happened tonight." She picked up a biscuit and pointed it at him. "You showed up. You made me smile, you made me feel better and best of all you made me realise what'd happened tonight wasn't so bad after all. In fact, it was probably a blessing in disguise." She took a bite from the biscuit; it was really an incongruous image with the glamorous dress she was wearing, the purposefully tousled hairstyle. "You know, I almost didn't go to the party that weekend. I'm really glad I did, because I not only did I meet Martin, but I got to…" She turned a little pink again. "Well, I got to sort of… meet you all over again."

Mark thought about the statement he'd made to Martin once, how people sometimes came into one's life when it was least expected, and realised he was very thankful that she had come back around and into his life again, that he'd had the opportunity to give her a second chance. "It's funny you should say that," Mark said, "because we nearly weren't there. It was a spontaneous choice for Martin and me to go out to visit my parents, because of Alberta with the weekend off…"

"Serendipitous indeed," she said, then turned to the coffee press. "Think it's about ready?"

…

It was the most innocuous thing she could think of to say in order to hide that she'd suddenly felt a bit freaked out by the sheer coincidences that had piled up regarding that particular weekend. If she hadn't turned up at all, or had taken the next train and had missed their being there altogether, or if Alberta had decided not to take the weekend off, Bridget probably would have been in bed having a shag with Daniel Cleaver at that very moment in time, being used for one thing only and not even knowing it, about which she rather cared not to think. She wouldn't have met Martin under the circumstances she had, and without Martin as a go-between she couldn't envision she'd ever have talked to his father willingly again after that disastrous New Year's meeting.

In that moment she also felt very warmly towards Mark Darcy, after the gallant way he'd tried to come to her rescue—_it's the thought that counts, anyway_, she mused to herself—and how comforting he'd been to her when she'd completely lost it. She thought of Daniel, who probably would have made an excuse to leave, or would have turned it into a seduction somehow. Martin was a gentleman, Bridget realised, because his father was.

"I tend to prefer it darker," he said, "but I'm sure it's fine at this point."

"What?" she asked, then remembered she'd been talking about the coffee. "Oh, sorry, right. Okay. I'll press away."

"Allow me. I think I have better leverage from my height."

He said it with a little half-grin that told her he was teasing, but she stepped aside to let him do it. She realised after a moment of watching him carefully control the downward plunge that she ought to pull down a pair of coffee mugs.

"Do you take milk or sugar?" she asked.

"No, thank you. Do you?"

"Mm-hmm. I'm something of a capp girl."

"Capp?"

"Cappuccino. Light and sweet."

"Ah, yes, of course."

He poured the coffee into the mugs, taking care to leave space in the top of one for milk. After doctoring it to her liking, she picked up the cup and the package of biscuits, and moved towards the dining room table. He did as well; as was likely unconscious habit, his fingers smoothly unbuttoned his suit jacket as he sat.

They sipped their coffees; Bridget felt like she ought to say something, but did not know exactly what.

"So it's the weekend," Mark said, evidently changing his mind and reaching for a biscuit.

"Mm," she said.

"If you're free tomorrow afternoon, I'd like it if you could join Martin and me."

"Oh?" she asked; she had to admit that the first part of his sentence almost made her brows reach for the heavens, as if perhaps they were convinced he was about to ask her out on a date. "Yes, that sounds nice. What had you planned?"

"Weather's supposed to be lovely. I was thinking perhaps a walk. Nothing firm set, though. Martin's just been non-stop asking me when we'll see you again."

She paused in bringing her coffee cup to her lips to smile. "How sweet," she murmured. "Oh. How about a picnic?"

He seemed to contemplate it over a sip of coffee of his own. "That's a terrific idea. Make an afternoon of it. Holland Park's within sight."

"So I've heard."

"Very good coffee, by the way," he said.

"Thank you."

"So you've heard?" he asked belatedly.

"I heard about your stargazing expedition." She took a nibble of her biscuit. "Mmm," she added, affecting a long-suffering tone after quickly chewing and swallowing, "I'm disappointed, though."

"What?"

"Come on, of _course_ the prince's planet is pink. How else would the red of the rose look from here?" She grinned, then took another sip of coffee.

"It's true," he lamented. "Adults have to be explained everything."

Something in the way he said what he'd said caused her to reflect on another statement he'd made that had left her feeling less of a grown-up.

"Bridget?"

"Hm?" she asked, looking up at him from the depths of her mug.

"Did I say something to offend you?"

She shook her head, though suspected it was less than convincing. This was confirmed by his continued penetrating gaze. "I just feel… not quite like a real adult."

"Because of what I said just now?"

"Not _just_ that." She pursed her lips, realising that what she'd said probably sounded like she had a laundry list of complaints against him. "I mean, what you said to Martin once when I was looking for your okay to come and visit him. _Adults_ don't play like that," she said quietly, echoing his previous words.

He scowled in his confusion. "I only meant they don't play like that with each other."

They stared at one another in silence. She didn't really know what to say. Had she just misinterpreted his words? Had she really not picked up on the fact he was joking? The whole misapprehension on her part was so ludicrous that she smiled, began to chuckle, then laugh. "Oh," she said sheepishly. "So it doesn't matter that I exactly duplicated Martin's logic on deciding the colour of the planet?"

It was his turn to laugh. "I didn't even know you had."

She felt her face flush with heat. "I don't actually feel like a real adult most of the time," she confessed.

"Would that more adults had such… well, I was going to say 'child-like sensibilities', but I'm afraid you'd take it wholly the wrong way." His broad grin softened to one that revealed tenderness. "Frankly, I think we'd be better off for it." He drank the rest of his coffee, then set his cup down and stood from the chair, his fingers moving to the button to fasten it again. "Well, thank you very much for such an excellent cup of coffee and a very good if slightly soft biscuit—don't mistake my meaning," he interrupted himself, "I rather like them softer. You'll be all right?"

She nodded. "Thanks again for the company, and the morale boost."

"My pleasure."

She rose, then asked, "What time tomorrow?"

"Eleven?" he asked, then grinned. "Will you need a wake-up call?"

"I think I can manage to set my alarm for the morning."

"We'll see," he said, his hand smoothing down the front panel of his jacket. He smiled, nodded, then said, "Goodnight." He turned and strode towards the door with such long, measured paces that she swore it only took him three steps to get to the stairs. She was so taken aback by the near-formality of his departure that he was through the door (closing it behind himself, of course) before she had a chance to give it a conscious thought.

"Goodnight," she said to thin air. She smiled, then began to chuckle. It was one of the odder evenings she'd had in recent memory, one that she wished very much to dissect with Shazzer or Jude. She glanced to the clock for the time, saw it was not even ten o'clock. Shaz probably hadn't even left her flat yet.

After changing from the dress to a pair of trackie bottoms, a tee and her bunny slippers, she grabbed the packet of Silk Cut, pulled out a fag and lit it up. As she took a long draw, she punched in Shaz' speed dial button.

"Bridge!" Shaz said upon picking up her mobile. "Why are you calling me? Aren't you out with Daniel? Isn't he shagging you as we speak?"

She exhaled. "He's not, and it's not for lack of his wanting to."

There was a long silence. "Bridge, what happened?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "It's certainly not as if I wasn't interested myself, but something about it all just felt… so contrived." She went on to explain the out-of-the-way restaurant and its overly private booth, and how Daniel had been all over her before they'd even ordered dinner. "It was like he'd done it a million times before. Like I was just another one of countless women whose name and face he would go on to forget."

"Crikey," said Shaz in a breathless voice.

"Then to press salt into the wound," said Bridget, "after Daniel drops me off then speeds away, I realise when I'm standing on the doorstep of my building that I don't have my keys."

"No!"

"Yes." She flicked some ash into an ashtray.

"At least it wasn't raining."

She laughed. "True."

"So you're home now? How'd you get in?"

"Mr Ramdas happened to return shortly afterwards, but not before Mark Darcy turned up and tried to break into my building for me with a credit card."

Rarely was Sharon speechless twice in the same conversation, but the second pause was nearly as long as the first. "Mark Darcy. Snooty, reindeer-jumper-wearing court barrister Mark Darcy."

"Yes," said Bridget. "And Martin's dad."

"And you're sure the kid's not taking after his mother?"

Bridget snorted a laugh. "I sincerely doubt it." She realised quite suddenly that she actually rather liked Mark, and more than just as Martin's father. He was a bit reticent, didn't broadcast his emotions and feelings for all the world to see, but he was thoughtful and kind, evident in the way he interacted with his son. "He came up for coffee."

"Ooo," said Shaz with a salacious edge to her voice. "Trade one man for another?"

"No," Bridget shot back. "He's… he's a nice guy. A gentleman. We chatted for a bit then he left."

"Not even a kiss goodnight?"

"Not even one forward move towards me." She decided she needed some air, and went out onto her little balcony, taking care not to let the door close and latch behind her. Twice in one night would have been too much to bear.

"Fwah," said Shaz as Bridget took in another drag. "I thought 'nice' meant 'boring', Bridge."

"Yeah," she said wistfully. "I thought that too."

"Ha!" Shaz exclaimed, startling her. "You like him!"

"I do like him," she said. "He's…." She faltered, knocking more ash off the end, watching it break apart and drift down out of sight into the darkness. "A genuinely decent man."

"Can't believe I'm hearing this from you," Shazzer said, "after you went on about what a loser he was on New Year's Day."

"Stung pride," she said. "I didn't want to be set up, but I also didn't want it to be so obvious he didn't want it, either. As it turns out, he had good reason to be so surly." She went on to explain the situation with Mark's cold-hearted ex-wife.

Shaz put it more succinctly. "What a bitch," she said. "The kid's good, you say?"

"Preternaturally well-behaved," said Bridget.

"That's worrisome," said Shaz, teasing. "Make sure he's not pulling the legs off of spiders."

"He's far too sensitive a child," she said, reminiscing reading to the boy, remembering his reactions and his concerns for the flower and the prince. "Anyway. What do you think?"

"About what, exactly?"

"About this evening." She took one last long draw then put out the butt end in a bedraggled tin plate that likely had last been used to bake a pie some time in the 1980s. "What am I supposed to make of it?"

"Hm," said Shaz. "How does Mark think of you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, are you someone nice to watch his kid while he goes out with some upper class cow? A replacement mum? Or what?"

She hadn't given much consideration to what he thought of her, aside from knowing he was pleased that Martin had taken to someone so quickly. "We seem to get on well," she said, "and I did catch him staring at my chest."

At that Shazzer burst out with a laugh. "I suppose that's a positive sign. I mean, if you want it to be that sort of positive sign. Though… not even a touch?"

At that she paused, wishing she'd thought to bring the packet of Silk Cut out with her. "He did hug me when I completely lost it and bawled over the Daniel fiasco."

"Did he smell nice?" Shaz asked.

"_Sharon_," she said through clenched teeth, though had to privately admit he did. "Don't you have a bottle of wine to get plastered on?"

"True," she said. "Oh, Bridge, come on out, we can continue to pick this apart."

"I can't," she said, the breeze lifting tendrils of hair from her neck. "I made plans for the morning."

"What sort of plans?" she asked.

"A picnic. With Martin." After a beat, she added, "And his father."

"Oooh, group date. Well. Go and get your beauty sleep. Can't wait to hear _all_ about it."

…

At first Mark thought his mind was playing tricks on him, but as the tapping at the door became a little more insistent, he realised he was not hearing things at all. He set down the towel with which he had been patting his face dry, and went to his bedroom door to open it. As expected it was Martin, dressed in his pyjamas and looking very tired.

"I can't sleep," he said sorrowfully.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Mark said, dropping to a crouch.

He shook his head. "I was thinking about things."

Mark had no idea what on earth could keep a boy so young awake at night, but he had his suspicions. "What sorts of things?"

"I was wondering if Bridget got my card," he said. "Is it all right if I call her?"

Mark chuckled. He doubted Bridget was as yet asleep, but it was too late in the evening by polite standards to be making telephone calls. "A little birdie told me she got your card today and it was the highlight of her day."

"A birdie?" he said, astonished.

Mark rose again, still chuckling. "Not literally, Martin. I actually saw her tonight."

Martin looked somewhere between pleased and jealous. "You did?"

"I did," he confirmed. "And she's free tomorrow."

"Oh!" he said excitedly, a smile overtaking his face and revealing the emerging tooth he usually strove to hide. "Will she be able to come visit me?"

Mark just smiled and nodded. "So you see, you can put your mind at ease. Let's get you back to your bed and to sleep." Martin hurried back to his room and dove beneath the sheets, pulling them up to his chin. Mark bent and gave his son another kiss goodnight before pulling the door mostly closed behind him, allowing a sliver of hall light into the room.

After finishing his nightly ablutions, Mark was snug in his own bed with the light off when he heard that same quiet rap at his door.

"Martin? What is it now?" he said, pushing back the sheet and sitting up.

Sheepishly his son opened the door. "Now I'm too excited about tomorrow to sleep," he confessed.

With a chuckle Mark rose. "Do you think some warm milk might help?"

He nodded. "And maybe you could read to me a little about the prince and the fox. I think that's my favourite part."

As per usual, the warm milk and the soft, lulling voice of his father were just the things to send Martin off to Bedfordshire, but upon returning to his own bed, Mark found he was himself now insomniac. His head was swirling with thoughts of the philosophical words of the fox to the prince, as well as tactile memories of holding Bridget in his embrace to soothe her. No amount of warm milk would help, he knew, but perhaps something stronger would settle his mind.

He slipped into his robe and went down to the front room, in which sat a small liquor cabinet where he kept a bottle of Oban single malt. He pulled out the cork, poured a finger-high serving into a tumbler, then brought the amber liquid to his lips, letting it warmth slide down. It was surprisingly soothing to him.

_…if you tame me, then we shall need each other._

He didn't know what in particular about this chapter held Martin's fascination. Maybe the idea of a friendship with bonds as strong as the fox and the prince had was appealing; though Martin had playmates at school, as introverted as he was, he didn't have many, and seemed to prefer to keep to himself. But what of his persistence in speculating whether the fox and the rose would be friends? Ever since that initial query, Martin would comment on his further theories, and Mark would listen and add his opinions, but he thought it was rather odd that the boy would continue on with the subject.

When Mark got to the end of that shot, he poured a second for good measure, as his thoughts had yet to quieten. The evening had not held much promise for him until that drive home, that unexpected encounter and welcome cup of coffee with Bridget; he had never seen her look quite so elegant, despite her turbulent state. She was attractive, but it was only that evening that it had truly struck him that he was attracted to her.

He refused to give in to a third shot as his head was already a bit swirly from the first two. He set the glass down, carefully putting the bottle away and latching the cabinet, then trudged up to his bedroom. The shots would prove to be just what he needed to fall quickly into sleep, and as he did, another quote from the chapter oddly echoed through his head:

_"There is a flower… I think she has tamed me."_


	7. Chapter 7

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 7.**

Bridget was very proud of the fact that she was awake, made up, coiffed (albeit in a simple ponytail), dressed in a tee, jeans and trainers, and caffeinated just shy of the target time of eleven in the morning, so when quarter past the hour came and went, then half past the hour, she became slightly alarmed. She was considering ringing Mark when her mobile rang most presciently, revealing Mark was the caller on the display before she even answered.

"Hi," she said as she did. The voice she heard was not the one she expected.

"Hi Bridget!"

"Martin?" she asked, confused. "What's going on? Where are you?"

"My dad overslept," he said in a conspiratorial tone, "so we're coming there now."

She realised she could hear street noises. "Are you in the car?"

"Yes. Dad asked me to call while he drove. We're on the bridge now."

"I'll come downstairs to meet you," she said, slipping on her jacket and grabbing the unopened packet of chocolate biscuits she had in the pantry, then stuffing it into her bag. "I'm glad you called. I was starting to worry a little." After a pause, she asked, "Did you remember my phone number?"

"Nope," he said. "Dad told me just to press three and hold it down."

She didn't quite understand what he meant by that, until she did; Mark had programmed her mobile number in. "Oh. Well, I'll see you in just a few minutes," she said.

"Will you stay on with me?"

She heard Mark's voice scolding from the front seat: "Martin!"

She giggled. "Oh, sure. How's the traffic?" She pulled flat the door behind her then descended the staircase.

"We're not moving at the moment. Oh. There we go."

As she exited the building and emerged into the sunshine, she immediately wished she'd grabbed her sunglasses, but then she realised she had no idea where they were. "What a lovely day," she said. "Gorgeous out here. Nice to be outside."

"We'll have to think of something fun to do," he said. Bridget realised that for whatever reason, Mark had not mentioned the picnic; perhaps Mark had had a change of heart, so she decided not to say anything. "Oh! I see you! Do you see us?"

She looked down the street and saw the silver sedan heading her way. She smiled and waved at them. There was a spot on the kerb a few car lengths down, so she walked towards it as Mark eased his car into that spot. Mark rose from the car almost immediately and offered a smile as he came around to open her door for her. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly. "I deserve any harassment you might have to offer."

She chuckled and shook her head, recalling his tease about needing a wake-up call. "It happens to the best of us," she said.

"Perhaps you'll be tempted to give me a hard time when I tell you it's partly due to Oban."

"What's Oban?"

"Scotch," he said sheepishly.

Before she could ask, Martin's voice sounded out. "Dad, can we please go?"

"Yes, son." To Bridget's surprise he opened the front passenger side door.

"Won't he want me to sit with him?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, very true." He closed the front door then opened the back. "Here you are."

"Thank you," she said. Before ducking into the car, though, she said discreetly, "Is the picnic still on?"

He nodded. "I didn't get a chance to put a basket together."

Bridget's backside had barely met the leather seat when she felt arms up and around her neck, reaching and hugging her as best he could from his booster seat. "Hi!" said Martin. "I'm glad to see you!"

She couldn't control a laugh; his father might have been hesitant to show his emotions, but Martin certainly did not seem to have any such inhibition. "I'm glad to see you too." She glanced up and caught Mark's profile bearing the distinct signs of amusement.

"You get to see my house!" Martin said with that adorable broad semi-gap-toothed grin of his.

"I do," she said, pulling the safety belt closed as Mark headed into traffic. "Do you like your house?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "It's really nice. But my voice echoes."

She was confused by the apparent non-sequitur. "It does?"

"If I'm in the hallway and I shout for Dad I can hear it echo a little."

She understood what he meant, and what he'd meant previously: the house was big. It wasn't a brag; it was a statement of fact. "Oh. Well, that sounds kind of fun, actually. Maybe we could play explorers…"

"We're not going to wear Bridget out, Martin," said Mark as he turned onto the bridge once more, heading back over the Thames. "Since it's such a nice day, we thought you might like to go on a picnic."

"A… picnic?"

The way Martin said it, his voice laden with both awe and slight confusion, she wondered if he'd ever been on anything like a picnic before.

"You know," Mark said. "It's like eating outside in the garden, like we've done with your Gran before."

"But will we be sitting at a table like at Gran's?"

"On a blanket," cut in Bridget. "Proper picnics are on a blanket."

"Oh, I think that will be really fun," said Martin, smiling again. "Thanks, Dad!"

"Don't thank me," he said. "Thank Bridget. It was her idea." His gaze lifted at the same moment hers did, and their eyes met in the mirror. She smiled too.

"Thanks, Bridget!" She felt Martin's hand on her forearm.

Within a matter of minutes they arrived at Mark's house, and Bridget did her best to keep from gawking as they got out of the car. It was a lovely house, narrow but tall; four levels, one semi-subterranean; wrought iron handrails with prodigiously thriving ivy looping around them and to the awning over the porch; and a tan brick edifice and white trim to match the lion-topped gate posts at the end of the walk. Unfortunately she must not have tried hard enough—the need to crane her head back surely gave it away—because she heard a soft chuckle just as Mark shut his door. "I know," he said resignedly.

"What do you know?"

"It's a bit much for the two of us."

"Rubbish—it's barely big enough for Martin's toys," she said, looking back to him with a grin, then conceded, "Okay, okay, maybe it is, a bit. But it's lovely and I'm sure perfect for you."

They strode together up to the front door. Mark turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door; Martin bounded inside. "Come on!" he said, racing over to then dashing up the stairs. "I want to show you my room!"

As she stood in the entryway, Bridget could see now what Martin had meant when he'd said his voice echoed. It was by no means palatial in scale, but the ceiling was high, and the staircase served to add to the effect.

"I couldn't sleep." It was Mark's voice from behind her, bringing her from her thoughts.

She turned. "What? Oh, the scotch."

He nodded. "I don't know if you ever have the sort of night where you can't switch your brain off, but last night was one of those nights for me. Hence the scotch. Then when I did… well, it didn't want to start up again. It was Martin coming to see if we were ready to come for you that got me up at about ten-forty-five."

She grinned but wondered what on earth had occupied his thoughts to the point of sleeplessness. "It happens."

"Getting ready was a bit rushed so I apologise for my appearance."

She looked him over and could not see anything out of the ordinary for him; he was cleanly shaven, his sideburns precisely trimmed, his shirt and trousers immaculate. She was about to respond to that effect, continuing the conversation, but Martin's voice calling for Bridget from upstairs interrupted her. She smiled and pointed up the stairs. "I should go up there."

Mark nodded. "I'll put together some sandwiches and drinks… and of course find a blanket."

"Good plan."

She set her bag down in the foyer then started to climb the stairs. "I'm on my way," she called.

When she got to the top of the stairs, she was greeted with a straight shot down the hallway directly into what she presumed was Mark's room; at a glance she could see it was a large bed made up with a lush-looking duvet, and, she mused at its unmade state, linens.

At that moment Martin's head peeked out from what she presumed was his own room. "There you are! Come on in, I brought them out for you."

Rather than ask, she stepped forward to see to what he was referring. There on the pristine white carpet was an array of small motor vehicles that was not inconsequential: regular and racing cars, lorries, minicabs, double-decker buses… he had quite a collection of Matchbox cars. She smiled then brought her fingers to her lips to hide it at his proud look. "Wow," she said. "These are all yours?"

He nodded. "Some were my dad's when he was little, but he gave them to me. He sometimes has to go to other places like America and he always gets me one there when he does." He got down onto his knees, picked up a small yellow vehicle, then sat cross-legged on the floor. "Like this one. I think it's called a dune-buggy. There are beaches there where you can drive these."

She too sat upon the floor, taking the car into her own hand to inspect it. "Very nice." She handed it back. "Do you play with them often?"

His shy smile and nod was the only answer on the subject she thought she'd get, but he added, "I make up stories about them."

"Do you?" she asked brightly. "What kind of stories?"

"Well," he said. "This is Melinda." He set down the dune-buggy called Melinda back into her place, then picked up an old-fashioned police car. "This one is called Mark, like my dad."

She grinned, then picked up a miniature Lamborghini. "How about this one?"

"Rupert."

"And this?" It was a yellow chequered cab, the sort they showed in the pictures all the time as being ubiquitous in New York City.

"Vinnie."

"Vinnie?"

"Yup," he said.

"Do they all have names?"

"Almost all," he said. "I just got a new blue Mini Cooper. Oh! That can be Bridget. Like you, and you have blue eyes." He picked it up to give to her. It was very obviously new and shiny, and a very pretty shade of dark blue.

"I'm honoured," she said, setting it down. "So. What kind of stories?" she asked encouragingly.

"Well, they drive around and have adventures."

"Maybe we could have adventures with them while your dad puts our picnic together."

"Really?"

She smiled brightly, then nodded.

…

Three sandwiches of roast turkey luncheon meat, sharp cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato and mustard on wholemeal bread, a large packet of crisps, some portable kid-sized juice boxes, and a bottle of chilled white wine and accompanying glasses later, Mark had only to roust up a blanket large enough for all three to comfortably sit on to picnic in the park. He thought his best bet for that would be the linen cupboard.

He went up the stairs and realised he heard Martin's voice talking quite animatedly. Curious, he crept up to the door and peeked inside to see that he and Bridget were sitting on the floor, engaged in playing with his Matchbox cars. There was a police car and an old Rolls Royce sitting on the edge of the bed as if on teetering on the edge of a cliff, and they each had a car in their respective hands—Bridget with the newest Mini, and Martin with the little Topolino he'd brought back from Rome for his son—as if the two were climbing upwards.

"We're almost there, Martin," said Bridget, quite seriously, but in a slightly different pitch. "We'll save you, Mark and Malcolm!"

He was a bit stunned to hear his own name in this context, but then remembered Martin had names for all of his cars. He smiled tenderly as he watched the further ascent of the rescuing vehicles; it touched him to see them playing together like this, so engrossed in their fiction that they hadn't even noticed his presence.

Mark continued on for the blanket; he saw then that in his haste to get out the door he had not only left his bedroom door open but had left his bed unmade. His horror was unmatched that Bridget might have seen it; in fact, it was a certainty that she had. Even still, he couldn't leave it open at the possibility she'd see it again, so he went forward and closed the door.

As he pulled down a woollen blanket and folded it over his arm, he called over his shoulder, "Time for the picnic. Put the cars away."

"Just a minute," called Bridget. "We're almost finished."

He walked back to the door to see Martin standing there looking unusually conflicted: most of the cars were already boxed up; the Topolino was on the 'cliff' with the other two cars, but Bridget was still making the steady climb with her Mini. "There!" she said as she reached the top, doing that same slightly odd voice. "We've come to rescue you!"

"Ah, but who will rescue _us_ now?" said Mark wryly, leaning against the doorjamb.

At his voice she turned then popped to her feet. "Sorry," she said with a sheepish smile. "I thought it important to get to the top."

"It's all right," he said, glancing to Martin, who visibly relaxed. "Everything's ready for the picnic, if you are."

"I think so," said Bridget, picking the remaining four cars up and heading towards the box. "I'll just put these away."

"Dad, don't scold Bridget," interjected Martin.

"What?" he said, puzzled. "Why would I scold her?"

"Well," he explained patiently, "if I don't put my toys away and come when you call for me, you scold me."

Mark looked up to Bridget, hoping she didn't think he turned into some sort of raving maniac if his son didn't immediately snap to his every command; for her part she only looked amused. "I'm not going to scold her," Mark said.

"Good." Martin went over to Bridget and took her hand. "Let's go."

Upon arriving down to the main floor, Mark grabbed the picnic basket and hoisted it up.

"I thought you didn't picnic," Bridget observed bemusedly.

"We don't, or at least, we haven't," said Mark. "This is the first time we've gotten to use it."

"Picnic basket's maiden voyage," she commented as she pulled her bag onto her shoulder. "Well, it certainly is as large as a steamship. Feels like we're taking the Titanic out for an afternoon."

He laughed. "Come on. Let's go to the park."

They departed the house; as he turned to lock the door, she said, "I could carry the blanket if you like."

"No, that's fine," he said. "Just keep Martin's hand."

The truth was that with every step he took Mark was starting to feel a little overburdened, but he knew they would be to Holland Park soon enough. She and Martin found a nice little green patch beneath a broad tree just inside the border of the park, and he set the basket down in order to unfurl the blanket. Bridget bent to pull the corners taut. "There we are," she said, dropping to sit on the blanket, the breeze playing with the ends of her ponytail. "Isn't this nice?"

Martin sat beside her, mimicking her cross-legged posture. "It is, and I'm hungry. Can we eat?"

"Absolutely." In their rush to get ready and pick up Bridget, Mark had not yet had a thing to eat that morning and was feeling quite ravenous himself. Mark sat too, on the opposite side of the basket as Bridget and his son, and opened the top to reveal the napkin-wrapped feast within. He handed a sandwich to Martin first, who carefully unwrapped it to reveal it had been twice-cut, just like he liked it, for smaller hands and mouth. Next he gave one to Bridget, then took out his own. He watched Martin pick up a quarter of his sandwich and take a big bite.

"I hope this will do," he said, reaching into the basket once more for the crisps. "I should have asked if you liked turkey."

"Oh, I'm sure it's delicious," she said, unwrapping her own sandwich as Martin grabbed a fistful of crisps.

"Take it easy," said Mark. "Your food isn't going anywhere, and I'll not have you choking and ruining our picnic."

Martin said, "Sorry."

Next Mark opened up a juice box for Martin to wash down the salty crisps, then reached in for the final item, the bottle of wine. At this she seemed surprised. He said, "I thought you liked white."

"I do," she said, "but it's earlier than I'm used to drinking it."

Mark chuckled, picked up for the corkscrew, and proceeded to open then pour the wine. The glasses he brought had a wide base and were double-layered, designed to keep the heat of tea away from the hand. He thought they'd do just as well for keeping the heat of the hand away from the chilled white wine instead of using long-stemmed affairs not very amenable to a picnic situation.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the first glass.

They proceeded to eat their lunch in relative silence; praise was forthcoming for the sandwiches, which were declared to be amongst the finest, most delicious sandwiches humankind had ever prepared, particularly when paired with the crisps. She in particular seemed very much to enjoy the wine, the crisps and the sandwich very much. It pleased Mark greatly.

As Bridget and Martin polished off the last of the crisps, Mark poured her a little more wine as well as a little for himself. "Thank you," she said to him. "By the way, I have a surprise."

"You do?" asked Martin, his brown eyes wide.

"Mm-hmm." She reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of chocolate biscuits, and at the sight of them, Martin was clearly thrilled. "Unfortunately," she said, meeting Mark's eye momentarily as she broke the seal to open the packet, "they're very fresh and crunchy."

Mark chuckled.

"Do you like chocolate biscuits, Martin?" asked Bridget.

Martin nodded. "We don't usually have such things after lunch though," he said, looking to his father.

"Well, I think this can be an exception," said Mark.

Mark leaned to rest on his free hand, feeling the warm, pleasant effects of the wine, the good meal, and now the biscuits. He watched the dappled sunlight play on Bridget's blonde hair as the leaves above them swayed in the wind, watched his son having a grand time eating out of doors with the two of them. When they'd had all the biscuits they could stand, Bridget and Martin laid back on the blanket and looked up at the sky, looking for shapes in the cotton-fluffy clouds above, their heads close together so that they'd have a similar point of view, but forming a sort of angle shape with their bodies.

"That looks like an elephant," she said, pointing up to the sky.

"No, a tiger," said Martin.

"What? How does that look like a tiger? That's obviously a trunk."

"That's his tail. He has a long tail."

After a pause, she said, "Hm, you could be right." She looked to Mark. "What do you think?"

"Which do you mean?" he asked.

Bridget moved aside a little. "Come on, lie down and I'll show you."

He laid down so that Bridget was between him and his son; at her insistence he brought his head close to hers as well. She pointed up. "You see, right there, well, it's kind of going fuzzy now, but: elephant or tiger?"

"Hm," he said thoughtfully; he really didn't see either. "I say giraffe."

She turned to look at him, and he at her. "You're mental." From Bridget's other side he heard Martin laugh.

"I'm not," he said. "It just happens to be a giraffe taking a drink out of a river."

She laughed, turning and arching her head back to do so; his eye was drawn to the line of her jaw and throat. "Okay, okay," she said, looking at him again with a grin. "You win."

He looked skyward too, and the three of them were content to be still for a little while in peaceable silence watching the clouds roll by. It felt good to just lie there and think of nothing in particular, except that his thoughts were drawn to the woman lying beside him, particularly as whatever she wore as a perfume kept drifting his way and tantalising his nostrils. For all of her faults—which were not really so bad—she was a very special woman, one to whom he was not only attracted, but for whom he was developing feelings. He liked her company, liked her being physically near, liked her sense of humour, her wit, and very much liked how fond she was of his son—

"Dad?"

It was Martin, whom Mark did not even realise was on his knees again. He'd gone into the picnic basket and pulled out another juice box from which to drink. Mark wondered if he'd briefly dozed.

"Yes, son?"

"This is nice and all, but I have to, well…" He looked to Bridget. "You know."

Mark smiled, pushing himself to sit upright. "The call of nature."

Martin nodded.

"I suppose we ought to gather up our things and head home," he said, glancing at his watch. Half past one. He turned to see that Bridget had indeed drifted to sleep, one hand raised over her head, the other crossing her waist; her fringe was lilting in the breeze. He reached to touch her forearm. "Bridget, we're leaving."

"Mm," she said, slowly opening her blue eyes and looking at him. "Oh, I could have slept for hours. It's heaven out here."

Mark smiled down from his position above her. "Indeed it is," he said, then added in a quieter tone, "but a certain little someone's going to burst like a grape if we don't get him home."

She chuckled, pushed herself to sit up, then got to her feet, lifting her arms above her head for a stretch. Mark was mesmerised for the briefest of moments by the glimpse of stomach revealed by this action before turning and getting to his own feet, picking up the basket and ensuring the napkins, crisp packet, empty wine bottle and glasses were packed inside.

"Well, I would declare this a most successful picnic," said Bridget, stepping off of the blanket and reaching for the side. "Mark, take the other side?"

He did as asked and they shook off the bits of grass and other detritus before folding it back into a portable form. "Basket's much lighter now," Mark said.

"I'll take the blanket," she insisted.

As they began to walk across the grass to the paved path, Martin reached and took both his father's hand and Bridget's, walking between them. Mark couldn't help but think what a picture they must have made, and he had to admit he rather liked imagining it.

As they approached the house, Mark realised that standing on his porch, key in hand as if preparing to enter, was his mother Elaine, who bore a slightly curious look on her face as she looked at the three of them. Martin saw her almost immediately and broke away from Mark and Bridget into a sprint, dashing up the stairs and shouting "Gran!" She crouched to accept his hug, then rose just as he and Bridget reached the house.

"I was wondering where you were," Elaine said with a smile. "I phoned both of your numbers and got no answer. I was beginning to worry. And Bridget! How nice to see you!"

Mark patted his trouser pocket and realised he had left his mobile in the house. Bridget said, tinting pink, "It's nice to see you, too. Mark invited me to spend the afternoon with him and Martin."

"I see," Elaine replied; he saw her brow flicker up with interest. As Elaine opened the door and they all entered, she continued, "Sorry for the last-minute notice, but…" As Mark set down the basket, Elaine leaned in close and lowered her voice. "I found us unexpectedly in town, your father's with his naval friends and I thought I might take Martin out and about."

"Are we going to the zoo, Gran?" asked Martin, causing the adults to all chuckle.

"Yes, Martin," she said. "We'll go to the zoo. And then we'll go have supper with your grandfather. What do you say?"

Martin answered with a resounding, "Yes!"

"Do you mind if he stays over with us?" Elaine said quietly. "I know he's likely to crash out after dinner, and it looks like he's already had something of an exciting day."

Allowing the comment to slide by without remark, Mark assented, figuring they'd be staying at the flat near Trafalgar Square. "Come on," said Elaine, taking Martin's hand, "let's pack you a bag for tonight."

Once they were alone, Mark turned to look at Bridget. With the blanket still folded over her arm, she said uncertainly, "I should probably… go. There's a Tube station not too far from here…"

"I insist upon driving you," he said, reaching to relieve her of the blanket, which he then turned and hung over the banister of the staircase.

"There's no need to trouble yourself," she said.

"It's no trouble," he said. "Truly."

She smiled shyly. "Well, if you insist."

"We'll just see off my mother and Martin first," he said, putting his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Sure."

There was some noise upstairs, at which they both turned their attention before looking at each other once more. He cleared his throat. He was disappointed, he realised, at the thought that their day together would be over sooner rather than later. "So," he began, then did not know what else to say.

"So," she repeated.

"Your friends," he said. "Are they also in publishing?"

She shook her head. "One's a journalist, one's at Brightlings. Tom's in the music biz."

"Tom?" he asked, then realised it sounded a bit desperate.

"Gay as a Broadway musical." She gave him a sidelong look, narrowing her eyes, but the faintest hint of a smile played upon her lips. "Why do you ask?"

"Curious," he said. "As to whether or not you're likely to, you know, see them tonight."

Her smile widened ever so slightly. "Are you trying to ask me if I have plans this evening?"

"I might be," he said, then cleared his throat. "Yes."

"I see," she said, her amusement evident. "I do not, as yet, have plans for this evening."

"Ah," he said. "Well. Would you care to have dinner with me?"

"You and me? On our own?" she asked, feigning surprise before offering a tender smile. "That sounds very nice. I'd like that."

"Ah," he said again, a smile lighting on his own features at last. "Great."

"All set to go," came Elaine's voice from the stairs; he turned to see her and Martin descending hand in hand. "I'll call before we bring him back tomorrow," she said, reaching to hug her son. "Have a nice night," she whispered, which made him wonder exactly how much she'd heard, and how much she thought was going to happen.

He pecked his mother on the cheek. "See you tomorrow." He then crouched to give his son a tight hug. "I love you," he said to Martin, kissing his cheek as well. "Don't run your grandmother ragged."

"I won't," he said. As Mark stood, Martin went over to Bridget and held out his arms; Mark caught his mother's overly pleased look at this spontaneous display of Martin's affection. "I'm glad you came over today." She crouched and hugged him.

"So am I," she said. "We must have more Matchbox adventures some other time."

"Okay," Martin said excitedly. He looked to his father. "Bye, Dad."

"Goodbye."

He saw his mother and son to the door and watched them head down the walk to her car before turning back to Bridget. "I'll bring you home," he said, "then come for you at, say, seven?"

"That sounds fine," she said.

The car ride back over the Thames and to her Borough Market abode was spent in a relative quiet; it was not, however, an uneasy one.

"I had a really fun time today," she said as he rounded the corner by her building. "Not every day a girl gets to play with race cars _and_ drink wine in Holland Park, all in the same day."

He chuckled as he pulled alongside the kerb. "I'll see you at seven, then."

"Seven it is."

As he walked her to the door, he said, "I'll make myself a little more presentable in the interim."

He saw her eyes flicker up and down as if to appraise him. "I don't know what you're on about," she said. "You look fine. Well. See you then." She put her key into the door and was in the building before he had a chance to respond with anything coherent.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 8.**

Bridget took the stairs to her flat two at a time, though there really was no hurry; she had plenty of time until his return at seven. It occurred to her only belatedly that she hadn't asked how to dress, and that she had already worn her nicest dress out on her failed date with Daniel just the night before. She thought about calling to ask, but reconsidered; it would not likely be a pub or a pizza parlour, so she figured she should just assume to dress as she would for any other first date.

_Yes, any other first date with a top-notch human rights barrister_, she thought, then scolded herself. It wouldn't do to think of him in such intimidating terms. He was Martin's kind but somewhat aloof father, after all; a consummate and considerate gentleman.

In the end, after a somewhat lengthy expedition into her closet, she chose a stylish and somewhat glamorous ruby red dress that she had nearly forgotten she had, one that was longer than she usually wore, and one that had been pushed to the back instead of being discarded altogether in the hopes that shedding a pound or two more would render it wearable again. In slipping it on she realised it fit quite nicely now, flattered her figure exceptionally well, and was perfect for a spring night.

She put on her trackie bottoms and a tee in order to have a bit of a snack to take the edge off of her peckish cravings. As she did, her telephone rang, and for a panicked moment she thought it might be Mark come to pick her up. Her eyes flew to the clock. To her relief she saw it was barely five.

"Hey, Bridge." It was Shazzer. "Jude's busy with Vile Richard, and Tom's seeing Creepy Jerome. Wanna watch something and get a pizza later?"

"Can't," she said, having another spoonful of yoghurt. "Have a date."

"Giving Daniel another chance?"

"No," she said. "With Mark."

"Ohhhh," said Shaz. "Was the picnic that much of a success?"

"It was," she said. "We had a really nice time. Then Mrs Darcy, Mark's mum, came by and took Martin away. I really thought that'd be the end of the day, but then he asked me for dinner, so…"

"You accepted out of pity?" supplied Shaz playfully. "It's his son you really like better?"

"Shurrup," she retorted in a mock-slurred voice. "There was no pity involved."

After a brief teasing by Shaz about leaving her to sit at home all alone to get pissed and shout at the television, they said their goodbyes and hung up. She finished the last of her yoghurt, made to light a cigarette, then thought better of it. She really didn't want to smell of smoke when he came to pick her up. Instead she dabbed a little perfume on her wrists and just under her ears on her throat.

After a heated internal debate regarding her hair being down versus up, she decided to wear it up again given the dress she'd picked and its generous scoop neck. She fashioned it a little tidier than the hairstyle of the night before. When she was satisfied with it, she applied a little more shadow, some liner at the base of her upper lashes and mascara for a look more appropriate for night-time.

She had just pulled on her hosiery (after a lengthy search for a pair that did not have a ladder in them) and had just slipped into her shoes when the entryphone rang. Clad only in her smalls and shoes, she went to answer it. "Yes?"

"It's Mark." There was a pause. "It's seven."

"Yes," she said, glancing to the clock. "So it is. Um. Come on up." She pressed the buzzer then ran to put on the dress, except she couldn't remember precisely where she'd taken it off. A quick scan of the loo revealed naught. The bedroom seemed a bust as well until she saw it resting over her sheets but obscured by the folded duvet. She pulled it over her head, turned to pull the duvet flat then exited her bedroom in time to hear a knock at the flat door.

"On my way," she said, stepping down to pull open the door. As she did she did not know what surprised her more: that in fact he had been able to improve upon his earlier appearance, complete with finely tailored suit, crisp white shirt and silk tie, or by the veritable garden's worth of red roses in his hand.

As speechless as she was, he seemed equally so, apparently taking in her own attire and overall appearance with an approving eye.

"Hello," he said at last. He held out his hand, offering her the bouquet. "These are for you."

"Wow," she said, "thank you." She brought them up to smell them, and just as she recalled that most modern roses had been bred for hardiness not fragrance, her senses were hit with the intoxicating redolence of that bloom. It was a lovely surprise. "Well." She looked to him again. "Why don't you come up?"

He smiled. "Yes. I think we'll want to get these in water, and I'm sure you'll want a wrap or a coat or something."

She turned and ascended into the flat again, careful not to step on the hem of her dress, with Mark directly behind her; she advised him precisely where a suitable vase might reside as she located her raincoat.

"I'll just get my clutch," she said. As she transferred the necessities between her usual purse and her clutch, she said, "Sorry I'm not totally ready. I lost track of the time, I guess."

She looked up to see him with a wry smirk on his lips. "You've had four hours."

"This dress didn't just appear out of thin air, you know," she countered playfully.

"It's very lovely," he said. "In fact, I believe it serendipitously matches the flowers, so it's worth the slight delay just now."

"They're really gorgeous," she said, feeling a blush stain her cheeks. "You shouldn't have… but it's nice that you did."

If she was not mistaken, he looked momentarily very pleased with himself before he said, "If you're ready, we should be off. We have reservations for seven-thirty."

She smiled then picked up her clutch and walked towards the stairs.

"And don't forget your keys," he said with some amusement.

He opened the front passenger car door for her, which caused her to chuckle in remembering his gaffe in opening it earlier that day. When he looked at her querulously, she said, "I don't think I've actually had the front seat before."

"Ah," he said, then laughed low in his throat too.

The drive to the restaurant filled Bridget with the oddest feeling of déjà vu; after parking, as they approached the restaurant on foot, she realised it that it was the very same one to which Daniel had brought her the night before. He touched her arm. "Is something wrong?" he asked, concern in his voice.

She shook her head and smiled brightly. "I'm fine," she said.

Upon entering, when the maître d' recognised her and asked, "Ah, miss, perhaps tonight will be better than last night?", she knew there would be no getting around giving more information to Mark, who turned to her instantly.

"You were here last night?" he asked in a discreet though incredulous tone. "Would you… prefer we go somewhere else?"

She considered that her present companion was worlds apart from the previous, considered also the quality of the wine and starter she'd had, and shook her head decidedly. "No, that's fine. It seems very nice here, you were obviously drawn to it, and I won't let last night spoil the evening for me."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

They were led to their table—a secluded table for two and not the lovers' lane for which Daniel had obviously asked especially the previous evening—and upon her taking her seat, Mark offered to push it in for her. She was already happy with the choice to stay, and actually feeling good about having done the right thing in walking away from Daniel.

"May I bring you some wine?" the maître d' asked, seemingly very deferential; perhaps he was acutely feeling the faux pas he'd made. "A starter?"

"The house white is very good," she said to Mark with a smirk, "as is the tortellini starter."

He grinned. "I believe we've made a choice, though I'll have red," he said. "Thank you."

As he left, Bridget asked, "Do you not like white wine?"

"As I drank a bottle of it with you earlier, I should hope I like it at least a little bit," he said. "I just find that in general, reds seem to have a more interesting, more complex and enjoyable taste to my palate."

"I just really can't stand the tannin taste," she said.

He chuckled. "I'm surprised you like something as dry as Chardonnay, then," he said. "I'd expect you'd go for something sweeter."

"I do usually prefer something sweeter."

They enjoyed their respective glasses of wine and the tortellini very much, as well as their dinner once that was ordered and delivered. What impressed her about the evening—which seemed to go by far too quickly—was not the restaurant, the wine or the food so much as how truly interested he seemed to want to talk to her. He asked about her work and whether or not she liked it; asked about those years between their paddling pool acquaintance and the present, including her academic career; not once during the course of their conversation did he seem uninterested in what she had to say. He also answered her reciprocal questions freely and, she felt, with complete candour.

The sharp contrast between this evening and the previous was not difficult to see.

"It would feel wrong and I would be completely disappointed," he said, "to not conclude the evening with espresso and dessert. What do you say?"

She smiled. "I think you know my opinion on sweets."

They ordered a small tiramisu to share; for him, a black demitasse of espresso, and for her, a sweetened cappuccino.

"I hope you don't mind me asking just one more thing," he said, raising the dark, bitter liquid to his lips.

"Hm?" she asked, holding her own cup midway between the table and her mouth.

"Whether or not my son actually drives you 'round the bend."

A short, sharp laugh escaped her before she could contain it. "No, he does not," she said. "He's intelligent and thoughtful, and my God, so well-behaved. You're not giving him electroshock therapy on the sly, are you?"

It was out of her mouth before she could think better of it; to her relief, though, he took it as the joke she meant it to be, and chuckled. "Luckily it hasn't come to that," he said. He pressed the fork down into the tiramisu, taking off the edge. "Very good, wouldn't you say?"

"Mm, indeed," she said, reaching to do the same.

He graciously allowed her the last bite, and after finishing their beverages (and settling the bill) they emerged into the cool night air. She pulled her raincoat closer around herself, felt the breeze zinging across the apples of her cheeks, and she sighed happily. It had been just about the perfect evening.

She felt his hand on her back, just on her shoulder. "Are you feeling chilled?" he asked.

"A little," she said, "but we'll be in the car soon enough."

His vehicle was indeed not very far from the restaurant; as they continued walking towards it, Bridget found it endearing that his hand remained on her shoulder, in an almost protective manner without being too forward.

"Here you are," he said, opening the door for her then stepping back.

"Thanks," she said, smiling up at him before she lowered herself into the seat.

Nothing more was said for the duration; the cabin of the vehicle instead was filled with the subtle sound of classical strings. There was no awkwardness, though, no pressure to speak; when they arrived to her building, he opened her door then walked her to the building. After twisting the key in the lock and pulling the door ajar, she turned to face him, the stoop and her heels serving to equalise the difference in their heights.

"Thanks for a great night," she said. She thought about the picnic, lying on the blanket and looking over to him smiling affectionately at her as they settled the debate about the shapes in the clouds, and added, "A great _day_, actually."

"The pleasure has been all mine," he said quietly.

Her gaze was completely transfixed by his; in the periphery of her vision he saw his hand raise then tentatively reach towards her until she felt the pads of his fingers sweep along her cheek. Suddenly, swiftly, he moved forward and, as he cupped her face in his hand, brought his lips to hers in a tender, chaste kiss that left her knees feeling like they might fold beneath her.

It also left her wanting more.

He'd had barely the chance to draw away, was murmuring apologies for his boldness, when her arms came up and around his neck; she pressed her lips to his, his spoken words muffled by her own mouth before quickly ceasing altogether as she eased him into a kiss that grew exponentially in passion with each fleeting moment. His arms came up and around her, bringing her flush against him, his fingers pressing hard into her back.

Just as quickly as it had begun, though, it ended. They drew apart and met one another's eyes once more. Her hands drifted down from his shoulders; his hands came away from where they'd encircled her waist. She had just recovered her equilibrium, allowed the chills to subside from her skin and was about to ask him if he wanted to come upstairs when he said in a low, unsteady voice, "Goodnight, Bridget." He stepped up onto the stoop, leaned forward and pulled her building's door open for her to enter.

She was a little taken aback by the apparent brusqueness and change of demeanour. "Oh," she said; she sounded crestfallen even to her own ears.

He didn't retreat, but he did say, "I can't stay. I hope you understand."

She knew he didn't mean that he had to get back to Martin, because he was with the elder Darcys… but in a flash, she _did_ understand. It was only their first date, and he was, by all evidence presented thus far, a gentleman.

Slowly, she nodded. "Goodnight, Mark."

He bent and kissed her quickly once more, then stepped back. "I'll ring you up soon."

She nodded again, then stepped into the building and trudged up the stairs.

When she opened the door to the flat proper, the scent of roses was quite overwhelming… and in more than one respect. She let out a long breath, still feeling the residual effects of that wondrous first kiss. It was for the best, she knew, that he hadn't come upstairs, because it might have been terribly tempting to allow things to progress further than they should have given the full scope of their situation: while they clearly liked one another and got along well, it was only a first date, after all, and most importantly, Martin's place in Mark's life (and now hers) could not be disregarded.

She kicked her shoes off in the vague direction of her bedroom, then slipped out of the raincoat and threw it over the banister. She reached up to pluck the kirby grips from her hair, then, once they were all removed, she shook out her tresses with her fingers. As her hair swept feather-light against her neck, tiny bumps rose along the skin there causing her to shiver, not unlike the kiss had done.

Her telephone began to ring. She set the pins down, drew her brows together, and picked up the telephone. "Bridget Jones," she said with as much serenity as she could muster.

"Bridget. It's Mark."

"Hello," she said, then laughed. "I didn't realise you meant you'd ring me so soon."

She heard him chuckle as well. "I just wanted to call to, well, see if you were all right."

She smiled, cradled the receiver with both hands. "I'm fine." After a beat, she added, "I really do understand… as much as I would have liked for you to come up."

He didn't say anything right away.

"Sorry," she said. "I've gone and put my foot in it."

"No," he said gently. "I would have liked to have come up. But…" He trailed off. "You already said you understand, so I won't belabour the point."

The way he was faltering was quite endearing; it made her smile again.

"Well," he said, his voice sounding more like it usually did. "Also wanted to say good night again." He cleared his throat. "Wanted to wish you sweet dreams."

"To you as well," she said. "It's probably quiet with Martin out of the house."

"Yes," he said, then laughed lightly. "Better get my sleep while I can, because the moment Mother brings him back in the morning, I'll get to hear all about the llamas or some such whether I want to or not."

She chuckled, which unexpectedly turned into a yawn. It was probably also best that he hadn't come up because clearly she wouldn't have even been able to keep her eyes open.

"Bridget?"

"Hm?"

"Sleep tight," he said. "We'll talk again very soon."

"Okay," she said. "Goodnight."

She hung up the telephone, and abruptly felt quite acutely lonely. It was for the best, she told herself again, but it didn't erase from her memory how nice it had felt to be held in his arms.

As she readied for bed, her thoughts turned to two very different men and two very different dates; it was all too evident that her attraction to Daniel Cleaver had been nothing but physical. She had always known intellectually that he was something of a rogue; she'd seen plenty of examples of his patterns of behaviour, knew how many women phoned for him in the course of a week. Perhaps beyond the surface of it, though he certainly was sexy, it was not really Daniel to whom she was attracted, but the idea that someone like Daniel could be attracted to her. Perhaps deep down she knew what would lie in her future should she allow her impulses to go unchecked with him.

As for Mark… well, Mark had had the opportunity Daniel had never gotten and had literally walked away from it, which surely said something about his character. He possessed good looks (particularly once the reindeer jumper had been removed from the picture), but it was those looks plus his good manners and kind nature that made him especially appealing. She could not help but feel, though, that it was all too good to be true. When would the other shoe drop and reveal potentially deal-breaking imperfections? She'd had the story of the split with his wife, Martin's mother, at least in part; what if there was more to it that neither he nor the ex-wife wanted to share even with family?

She shook her head as if to shake off the negative thought trail. It would not do at all to invent intrigue about a situation that was probably just as straightforward as it seemed. _Better to _avoid_ the devil you know,_ she mused. _Maybe that floppy shock of hair was to cover his horns_.

With this amusing thought running through her mind she climbed into her bed and pulled the sheets over herself.

…

"Mark?"

As he hovered over his cup of morning coffee perusing the newspaper at the kitchen table the next morning, he was surprised to hear his mother's voice calling from the main floor. "I'm downstairs," he called in return. Instead of his mother, however, he was greeted by the sight of his son, who was all smiles and exuberance.

"Hi!"

As Martin ran to him and threw his arms around his father, it occurred to Mark that he really needed to get the boy's hair cut sooner rather than later. "Did you have a nice time?"

"Mm-hmm!" he said. "We saw lions and tigers! And a pig that looked like he had a moustache. But I didn't see any foxes."

Mark looked to his mother, who shrugged. "I don't understand why, either."

"I do," he said. "_The Little Prince_."

"Ah," said Elaine, sitting beside Mark.

"Something to eat, Martin?"

"Um, we had breakfast, but orange juice, please."

Mark turned to his mother. "Would you like some coffee?"

"No, can't stay, heading home. I left your father at the flat to finish waking and dressing," she said. As Martin went to the television and switched it on, looking for cartoons to amuse himself, she asked in a quiet tone, "And how about you, Mark? Did _you_ have a nice time?"

He knew his mother was referring to his dinner date. "Yes, in fact, I did," he said.

A smile flickered across her face. "Glad to hear it," she said. "Martin seems to think very highly of her, likes her very much indeed. She was all he talked about: the picnic, the cloud animals, the biscuits…."

The corner of Mark's mouth quirked with a little smile.

"Where do you see this going, Mark?" she asked. "I like Bridget very much, but I would hate for Martin to get too attached to someone who isn't going to stick around."

Her point was made. Martin already had a fear of abandonment. "Whatever happens or doesn't happen, I don't intend on booting her out of his life."

"I am glad to see you've changed your opinions of one another," said his mother. "That is the case, I hope?"

"If you're asking if I like Bridget, too," said Mark, "the answer is yes."

She grinned. "I know nothing is more important to you than Martin is," she said, "but I would hate to see your own happiness pay the price of your erring on the side of caution."

To this Mark had no ready response. His first instinct was to protest the ridiculousness of the statement, but he couldn't say with complete confidence that he wouldn't put his son before his own wants and desires; indeed, his very happiness.

"I must be off," Elaine said in a louder, brighter tone, which pulled Martin's attention away from the cartoons he'd found. "Come and give your gran another kiss goodbye."

Martin jumped from the sofa, ran over to her and reached up to hug and smack a big kiss on her cheek. "Thanks again for the zoo trip," he said.

Elaine rose to her full height again from the chair. "My pleasure." She went to Mark again, who rose to embrace her. "Think about what I said," she whispered.

"Don't worry, I will," he replied.

In fact, it was all he could think about for the rest of the day, try as he might to distract himself with reading law journals while Martin had a lie down, or going out for a walk in the afternoon sunshine. After supper he helped his son with his homework (such as it was for age six), then after tucking him to bed for the night, reviewed his notes for the following day (making a note to call to arrange to see the barber, both for himself and for Martin), washed up and turned in early too.

It was probably all too much to be thinking about after only one date, but the truth was that while he did like her very much, wanted very much to keep seeing her, part of him felt it wasn't right to ask her to take on the added responsibility of another woman's son when she was still young enough to have children of her own. He wondered if she even realised what a huge duty it was to have someone so utterly dependent on one, how it was so much more than reading a story or playing with Matchbox cars every once in a while, how she would not be free to go out with her friends whenever she wanted to drink and dance into the wee hours and sleep until the afternoon—

He scolded himself mentally. How was it fair to assume such things, or to presume to not give her a choice in the matter? She was not stupid; surely she knew that accepting him into her life also meant accepting Martin into her life. And, he reminded himself again, it had been only one date. He did not under any circumstances wish to move too quickly. It was so like his analytical mind to want to account for all possibilities.

—But instinct told him that she was to be something more than just a friend to him and his son, something that seemed just out of reach, and as much as he wanted things to flourish, he was fearful of the consequences it might have.

What if everything went _right_, though? To have a truly loving wife, a real mother to his son, someone with whom he could share not only responsibilities and the occasional heartache but joy and love, and maybe even more children…. The mental image of a younger sister, head full of blonde hair and running around like a wild child, pestering Martin, unexpectedly popped into his head… and made him chuckle.

He debated for a little while whether or not to pick up the telephone and ring her—nothing deep or meaningful, just a light and friendly hello—and since it was not terribly late, he decided to do it after all. Her mobile appeared to be out of service range, and her home number rang so many times he had a feeling it was bound to go to answerphone. It did. The message that greeted his ear made him smile, but also reinforced his conviction that getting involved with her would require additional consideration.


	9. Chapter 9

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

I apologize for the lack of replies to some of the lovely reviews left. So, so busy. I thank you sincerely!

* * *

**Chapter 9.**

Dinner out with the Urban Family was just what Bridget needed; the freedom to smoke to her heart's content and drink cheap wine by the bottle was refreshing after so many recent best-behaviour-type interactions with Mark and Martin.

"Sounds like hell," Tom said languidly, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "A straight-laced goody-goody and his six-year-old clone."

"You're terrible," said Bridget with a little laugh. "It was anything but hell, and that's saying something considering what you just described. Yeah, he's a bit of a goody-goody, but you know, I think the bad-boy-type is overrated. I don't feel like I have to be suspicious of his motivations."

"Perhaps it's a clever ruse," said Jude, obviously squiffy. "Sort of a… double blind."

Bridget made a dismissive sound as she exhaled smoke. "I really don't think so," she said. "It would take a concerted effort to be that noble and upstanding all the time if you didn't really feel it. Plus, he does it when he doesn't know he's even being watched."

"And he's nice to look at?" asked Shaz.

"Very, _very_ nice," she said with a sigh of lamentation. "I feel like a shit for being so shallow on New Year's."

"Well, you were likely blinded by that awful jumper," Shaz tittered.

"I might have softened if he'd been nicer, sod the jumper," she said, then took a long drink. "But that's in the past. What am I gonna do?"

"You have to weigh your desire to shag this guy versus the possibility of becoming the wicked step-mum," offered Tom drolly.

"There's no competition to speak of, though," reminded Bridget. "The ex-wife took off like a shot mere months after the kid was born. As far as I know, she's never even met Martin." She sighed, then drew in another drag before exhaling. "And it's freakish to say, because as a rule my skin crawls around kids, but Martin's actually pretty great."

"Oh God," said Shaz with a snort. "The prospect of getting off is affecting your judgement."

"Shurrup," said Bridget, having another sip. "I thought Martin was pretty great before I even realised I was sort of… attracted to Mark." In that moment she realised she really was attracted to him; at the very least, it was the first time she acknowledged it consciously.

"And the theory is he smells nice," teased Shazzer.

"He does," Bridget sighed. "And he's got really strong arms."

"Just bloody sleep with him," said Jude. "You like him, you like the kid, he likes you."

"Yes, but…" began Bridget.

"But what?"

She didn't know quite how to put into words how she felt. "I'm afraid I'd be a total disaster. With his kid, I mean. Am an only child, and my only real experience with watching children has been Magda's brood."

"You watched Martin once by yourself, though, right?"

"Well… yes. Once. In my own flat, a controlled environment where he had my undivided attention."

"I don't think," drawled Tom, "you'd be a _total_ disaster."

Bridget reached over to playfully punch at him, but she miscalculated and missed, lurching forward, losing her balance and nearly falling off her seat. Her friends roared with laughter. "Bollocks," Bridget said as she righted herself.

"Just try to stay off the drink when you watch him," howled Shaz as she held up a finger. "Motherhood tip number one."

They teased for just a little bit more, offering more motherhood tips like "don't leave him in a trash bin" (playing to her own fears) and "fags are not appropriate motivational treats for a six-year-old" before their little party drew to a close. She piled herself into a minicab and headed for home.

By the time she got to her flat, the haze of intoxication had started to clear a little. When she saw the time, she wanted to cry: she would have to be up in five hours to get ready for work. She was irresponsible. She was unfit to be anyone's mother, let alone the child of Mr Upstanding Human Rights Barrister.

She noticed as she straggled by the telephone that the answerphone was blinking with a new message. Furrowing her brow, she pressed the button to listen.

"It's, uh, Mark." There was a long pause. "This is for Bridget. Interesting greeting you have there. I… well. Talk to you soon." He then disconnected. At least he seemed amused, but she wondered what in the world he could be—

In a flash she remembered the goofy outbound message she'd set earlier that day in anticipation of Tom's call to make plans for the evening… one she had not reverted back to normal; one involving Mabel's House of Ill Repute and a special on male prostitutes that evening.

There was no point in changing it whilst she was still half-pissed. She had already humiliated herself to the one person she was trying to dissuade from thinking of her as immature, and that would only make things worse. She trudged to the washroom to scrub the makeup from her face then fell into bed.

…

Monday had been a day of one task after another, what with court appearances, a last-minute barber appointment and extra work for the day to follow, brought on by a co-worker's illness. He'd attempted to reach Bridget later in the evening on Tuesday, but a call to the mobile immediately diverted him to voice mail, and on her home line he once again got her answerphone. He mused that at least the outbound message was restored to something resembling normal. He left a brief message and hung up. As he did, there was a tugging at his sleeve.

"Who were you calling?"

"I was trying to reach Bridget, if you must know."

"I want to talk to her."

"I couldn't reach her. I only got the answerphone."

"Will you call again? So I can hear it?"

Mark dialled again and handed his son the receiver. When the message came on again, he smiled and looked up to Mark. He heard the beep and to his surprise Martin started talking.

"Hi Bridget. I hope you're okay, and I hope I see you soon!"

He then placed the telephone back on its receiver and beamed proudly up to his father. Mark was quite astonished, and not for the first time, at how spontaneous and brave his son was when it came to Bridget.

On Wednesday as he was on his way out for some lunch when his mobile began to ring. He was currently in stop-and-go traffic, so he pulled out the phone, saw it was Bridget's number on the display, and set it to hands-free to answer.

"Hello, Bridget," he said.

"Oh," she said, as if surprised that he knew it was she who was calling. "Hi. How have you been?"

"Very busy," he said, easing up on the brake and moving forward again. "Yourself? You've been difficult to get hold of."

"Yeah, sorry about that," she said. "Been busy too." After a beat, she added, "Thanks for the messages, yours and Martin's. They brightened my evening."

He smiled. "I'm glad."

"So I had a question," she said. She sounded a little apprehensive. "I'm taking my goddaughter Constance to see the circus on Friday, and I was wondering if it might be all right to bring Martin as well."

Mark felt his brows rise. "You'll be alone?" he asked. "I mean with the two of them?"

"I've taken Constance places lots of times, and she's only four," she said in a standoffish tone.

"I don't mean… I'm sorry, that came out all wrong."

She sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I'm sure I'd be equally protective in your shoes."

"It isn't that I think you can't do it," he said. "I just question whether or not you'll be sane by the end of it, two small children at the circus. But if you're up to it, I know Martin would love to go, and I trust you with him."

"Oh." She was quiet, then said at last, "Great. Oh. Doesn't Martin have school?"

"What time does it start?"

"Four."

"And where's the circus?"

"Richmond Athletic Ground."

"Perfect," he said. "I'll leave authorisation with the school for you to pick him up. It's very near to there." He gave her the address of the school, which she asked him to repeat as she hadn't had a pen ready, then she read it back.

"One last question," she asked.

"Yes?"

"When does class let out?"

He laughed. "Yes, that might be important to know. Quarter past three." After a pause, he added, "You know, I think I'd like it to be a surprise for him. When he sees you, he'll just be thrilled."

She chuckled too. "Plus he'd probably be impossible to bear in the interim."

"That too," he said. "Perhaps you can stay for dinner when you bring him home."

He had expected, or at least hoped for, an immediate reply in the affirmative, but she did not say anything.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'll come and get you after the show, then you can decide."

"Oh, don't misunderstand," she said hastily. "I'd love to, but… what about Constance?"

He had momentarily forgotten about the second child. "Well, I can either bring her to her own home, or, depending on how well she and Martin get along, she can join us."

"Oh," she said, then when she spoke again he could hear the smile in her voice. "I'll see if that's okay with her mother but I'm sure it will be."

"Great," Mark said, a smile wide on his face. "How long is the show?"

"Two and a half hours, I think."

"I'll be there at half-past six then. Looking forward to Friday night, then."

"So am I. Um… I'll… let you go then," she said. "Since it sounds like you're driving."

"I am, but it's hands-free," he said.

"Ah."

"And actually… are you free?" he asked on a sudden inspiration. "Would you like to meet for lunch?"

After a beat, she said, "Yes, sure. I'd love to."

He told her where he was intending on going, a friendly little pub he liked to frequent for good food and peace of mind, and where it was. "Oh," she said. "That sounds very nice. I can be there in about ten minutes. It's not too far from here."

He turned the corner. "I'm nearly there myself. Shall I have a glass of white wine ready and waiting?"

She chuckled. "Sure. It'll keep me through the afternoon."

He arrived and took a table by the window, then ordered a Chardonnay for Bridget and a pint of bitter for himself. When he spied her through the glass, he held up his hand in greeting. He was rewarded with a flash of a smile.

"Hi," she said, slipping out of her jacket and hanging it on the back of her chair. "Wine as promised. I'm impressed." She saw what he was drinking and affected shock. "Beer? I never would have thought."

He chuckled, then picked up the beer and took a draw. "Standard pub fare, excellently done. What do you think you might want?"

"Oh, maybe a chicken pasty. I could eat an entire chicken on my own. And chips."

He went to the bar to place their order—chicken pasty for her, steak and kidney pie for him, and a huge pile of chips to split—then came back to the table. The food came back within a few minutes and he carved into his dish with great enthusiasm.

"Oh. What did you get?" she asked. Upon explanation, she wrinkled her nose. "Never cared for kidney, myself. What kind of kidney is used, anyway?"

"Pardon?"

"Kidney from what sort of animal?"

"Haven't the faintest," he said, then picked up a forkful and ate it.

"Hope it's from an animal, at least," she mused.

At her quip he laughed and coughed a little on his food. When he settled down, she looked appropriately chastened; he teased in a strained voice, "If you're not careful, yours will be on the menu next for nearly killing me."

She offered a grin, took a big bite from her pasty, then washed it down with a sip of wine. "So… how much arse have you kicked so far today in the name of justice?"

He chuckled, then as they ate he told her in brief about the case that had occupied much of his attention recently. He thought he'd kept the description fairly inane, but in concluding his description he could tell it had rattled her a little.

"That must be… very difficult to have to deal with," she said, her voice quavering as she reached for a chip.

"It is," he said, another bite of pie poised on his fork. "Don't think I'm desensitised, because I'm not. I just have had to toughen my skin a bit to do the best job that I can for them."

"I'm sure," she said as he ate it. "It probably helps to go home to a kid like Martin—probably restores your faith in humanity."

"Yes," he said, instantly consciously realising it to be true. "I can't tell you how much I look forward to getting home to him in the evenings."

"I think I can guess," she said. "He's the least like the Antichrist among the children I know."

At this he chuckled. "And yourself," he said. "Tell me about your morning, your day, your week."

"It's been hell," she admitted. "My co-worker—who, by the way, thinks she's my superior because she's been there about six months longer than I have—has been a harpy on wheels of fire with this book launch thing we're doing, and my boss… ugh. Don't even want to go there. He's a fuckwit."

There was that term again; it made him wonder about the first time he'd heard it, the flowers and the failed date the night he'd found her locked out of her building.

"Yes," she said, seemingly reading his thoughts. "I idiotically agreed to a date with my boss, and now everything's awkward at work. I have to get out of there."

"You should start looking at once," he said. "I hate to think of you having to work under those conditions."

"Yeah," she said. "You're right, of course."

"If he persists," he said, consciously aware of the change in timbre of his voice, "let me know, and I'll bring the hammer of harassment law down on him so hard his progeny will be making restitution to you."

At that she laughed, then smiled, looking at him with very warm eyes. "Now _that_ I'd like to see."

…

She watched the dimple form in his cheek as he smiled, but could only think of his momentary slip into what must have been his professional persona; there was something thrillingly sexy about the authoritative manner he'd so briefly assumed. _Perhaps Tom was right_, she thought. _Perhaps I _would_ like it if he growled at me paternally._

"Or, you know," he said, looking to his lunch as he took up another forkful, "I could just go knock him out for you." He looked up again with an almost playful grin that oddly enough reminded her of his son.

"Yeah, right," she said with a chuckle. "Thanks for making me laugh, anyway."

"And thank you for your wonderful company, and for making me forget the stress of my morning at work," he said. "It means a lot to me." He glanced to his watch, cursing under his breath. "Speaking of which, I should be off soon."

"Yeah, me too," she said. They finished up their respective dishes and drinks, and Mark paid the bill.

"Would you like a ride back?" he asked as they emerged back onto the street.

"Oh, no, that's all right," she said. "I am literally around the corner and a block down. It would probably take you longer to drive there than it would for me to walk owing to traffic, and you've probably got some freedom fighter to get back to defending."

He chuckled. "I really wouldn't have minded."

"I know," she said softly because she believed he meant it. On impulse she stepped forward to give him a hug, peck a kiss on his lips. "When you see Martin later, tell him hello from me. Give him a hug, too."

"I'll be sure to." He paused, then added, "Bye."

She watched him walk away and as he stepped into his car, she closed her eyes and let out a long breath. She'd done it, taken the plunge and offered to keep Martin for an afternoon—and had gotten a nice lunch out of the deal. She'd come up with the idea after much deliberation in an attempt to show Mark that she was in fact responsible and could be trusted to care for his son. _Let's hope I don't manage to get him hurt, _she thought, _or lost… or worse._

As Friday approached Bridget's nerves became more and more frazzled. When the day arrived she left early for Magda's, a miracle unto itself, because she didn't want to risk traffic snarls. It turned out to be a good thing she'd done so, because an accident on A4 out west to Richmond (where the school, the circus and Magda and Jeremy's abode were all fortuitously located) had delayed the ride significantly, which meant she got there on time instead of early.

"Bridge, I'll warn you, she's a bit cranky today," said Magda as she tugged Constance by the hand out to the taxi. "She was stubborn about going to bed, and stubborn about getting up. Probably for the best she can't go with you for supper."

"I'm not cranky," said Constance defiantly.

"Of course you're not," said Bridget in return, holding her arms open to invite a hug. "How's my darling goddaughter?"

"Good, Auntie B," she said, her little face pressed into the side of Bridget's.

"And we have a new friend coming with us, too."

Magda grinned. Bridget had let Magda in on her idea in the vaguest of terms.

"That sounds fun," Constance said, pulling back with a smile.

"Best be off," said Bridget. "Taxi's waiting."

"There are child seats?" asked Magda with a strained voice.

"Yes, there are. Don't fret."

Within a matter of moments and some additional instruction to Constance by Magda to behave herself they were off; they were on target to reach Martin's school as class let out, but it occurred to her that she didn't really know what the procedure was to pick him up from the school. When they arrived in front of the likely exit (judging from the number of other hovering, waiting vehicles), the driver came to a stop and in thickly accented English insisted she pay for the ride thus far. She gathered up her things, paid the fare and instructed the driver to wait as she unfastened Constance from the car seat. Lifting her to the ground, Bridget took her by the hand then scurried up the walk to the door and pushed it open.

A dozen or more heads turned at her entrance, as did a woman behind a desk; it was obviously intended as some kind of reception or informational desk, and parents and guardians lined the hallway there waiting for their little ones. Bridget smiled in what must have looked like a frozen-in-the-headlights sort of way. "Hi," she said, turning her attention to the serious expression behind the desk. "I'm here to pick up Martin. Er, Darcy," she added at the last moment, as if there might be more than one. "His father arranged it."

"And you are?" she asked imperiously.

With Constance's hand still in hers she came nearer to the desk. "Bridget Jones."

The woman looked at her screen. "Have you some kind of ID?"

"Yes, yes, sure." She dug into her purse and found her driving licence.

"Very well," said the receptionist, examining it carefully before handing it back. "You can wait there. Class will be out in three minutes."

She nodded, but sighed. There was going to be another enormous taxi fare in her future. She found an empty spot on the bench there—a posh, padded affair—and pulled Constance to sit on her knee.

An interminable few minutes later a sharp jangling bell sounded. Smaller children began to file out of the rooms. Older children started filtering down from an upper level and out the door. The younger ones went to their respective grown-ups; as if a practiced ballet, hands were grasped and they were led out of the room in no time at all.

Still no Martin.

She was becoming concerned when a familiar figure (minus a considerable amount of hair) emerged from a room on the hallway. His head was buried in a book—a familiar book, she noted with a smile—until his eyes flickered up, down, then quickly up again in unmitigated shock, his eyes going round as saucers.

"Oh my gosh!" he said, running to her as quickly as his shiny dress shoes would allow him, smiling broadly. She released Constance's hand and crouched with her arms outstretched just as he put his arms around her neck and squeezed tightly. "Dad said there was a surprise for after work but I didn't know!"

She chuckled. "There's even more to the surprise. But we'll need to get back to the taxi, and then we can have proper introductions."

She got to her feet then took Martin's hand in one, Constance's in the other, and strode confidently out the door and back to where the taxi was parked.

Correction: where the taxi was _supposed_ to be parked. It was now gone.

"Where'd it go?" asked Constance.

Bridget looked down to her; Constance looked as crestfallen as she felt. "I don't know."

"Was the surprise here?" Martin asked.

"No," she said, turning to look at him. "The taxi was supposed to be here to take us to… well. The circus."

"The circus at the Athletic Ground?" he said excitedly. "Oh my gosh, Kevin and Patrick and Susie were all saying they were going and it's so near to here!"

Bridget narrowed her eyes. "How near to here?"

Martin looked embarrassed. "I don't know, actually."

Bridget whipped around in order to see if any of the other adults were around. She saw a Sloaney-looking woman fussing over getting her child strapped in in the back seat of a car that was large beyond all sense. With the children's hands in hers, she said, "Come on," then began to walk as briskly as she could, calling, "Hello! Pardon, can you help me?" For their part, the children thought it was hilarious and giggled as they ran to keep up.

The woman stood—Bridget would have sworn she was a giantess—and pulled her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses down to look over the top. "Me?"

"Yes, sorry," she said, coming to a halt. "I was just wondering if you could tell me where the Athletic Ground was. The taxi left when I asked it to stay, and…" She trailed off, feeling a little like one of those car park beggars she occasionally encountered at Tesco, and resolved to give them money or food or something when she next saw one.

"Oh," she said, swishing back her elegant auburn bob with perfect blonde highlights. "I believe it's just down a few blocks or so from here." She turned and pointed vaguely in a direction that meant nothing to Bridget.

"We're going there!" burst out Martin.

For the first time the tall stranger turned her eyes to him. "Oh, you're Martin, aren't you? I'm Cara's mother. Where's your nanny today?"

"Bridget came instead!" he said excitedly. "To take us to the circus!"

Her bronzed face cracked a smile at last. "Oh, the _circus!_" she said.

"Yes," said Bridget woefully. "And now the taxi's gone we'll have to… I don't know. Walk. And get there late." She sighed without really meaning to, but she'd had the children less than an hour and she'd already buggered things up.

"Well, Bridget," said the bronzed auburn giantess. "I'll tell you what. It's on my way home. Why don't I drop the lot of you there?"

"Oh, that would be the biggest lifesaver."

The backseat had another, unoccupied car seat (for a child who was not present), into which they fixed Constance. Cara looked at Martin and they exchanged shy hellos as Martin settled between them with the restraint over his waist. "It's only a short ride," she said, "so I think we'll be fine, but you have to be very still."

Martin nodded enthusiastically.

During the short drive Bridget learned that Cara's mum was called Miranda, and that her other daughter, Bella, was too young for nursery school yet. "In the autumn," she said. "She's home with my husband."

"Ah," said Bridget, feeling a bit awkward.

"So how do you know Martin's father?" Miranda asked, turning into the car park next to the athletic ground. There were banners, marquees, balloons and streamers everywhere, loads of people and even more children, and for the first time Bridget became overwhelmed at the thought of wrangling the two youngsters on her own.

"We're… friends," she said, mindful of Martin in the back seat, though not entirely sure he was listening with the way he was gawping at the crowd outside of the vehicle.

"Friends, hm?" Miranda said, then looked to Bridget with a little smirk. "If I wasn't already with Richard… ooof." She slowly pulled up alongside the kerb.

"Ooof?" parroted Bridget, though she knew what the woman meant by it.

Miranda dropped the timbre of her voice down. "Let me just say that there are quite a few mummies who aren't as encumbered as I, and they sure wouldn't mind a little playtime."

"Ah," she said stupidly. "Well, looks like we're here." The moment the car came to a complete stop Bridget got out of the vehicle, then went to the back seat to help Constance and Martin up and out of their respective restraints. With the children safely on the walk and her bag over in her arm, she bent and smiled. "Thank you so very much for the lift. It's most appreciated."

"My pleasure," she said, flashing a bright white smile that seemed surprisingly sincere. "Have a fun time."

"Oh, we will."

The first thing she did after Miranda drove away was to help Martin get his book tucked into his little rucksack. "Okay. I'm sorry I didn't get to do this before," she said, crouched down with one hand on Martin's shoulder and one on Constance's. "Martin, this is Constance. She's my goddaughter. Do you know what that means?"

"Um, I think so. Sort of like your daughter?"

"Sort of, but not quite. Her mum and dad picked me because they trust me to be like a… backup mum."

At this Martin's expression faltered a little. She figured she'd better make up for it, and quickly:

"And Constance, this is Martin. He is very important to me." Martin's features perked again. "Now Martin, you're six, and Constance is four, and since she's smaller than you are I'm going to need your help with her. Do you think you can do it?"

He nodded. She realised she really missed his little curls, missed the way they bobbed when he moved.

"And Constance, there are a lot of people here, so you'll need to be a good girl, and listen to me, _and_ to Martin if he's helping me. Okay?"

"Okay!"

"Great," she said, rising to her full height again. She slung her bag over her head so that it sat diagonally across her chest, then took one each of their hands in hers. "Shall we find our seats, then?"

At this Constance began squealing excitedly.

"Constance, you heard what Bridget said," Martin said very seriously as they began to walk. "You have to be a good girl."

"I think it's okay to maybe squeal a little bit when you're at a circus," confided Bridget, then winked.

He smiled, then let out an little screech of his own.

After getting something to drink and some popcorn, they found their seats and waited for the show to start. With the low buzz of the crowd around them, she felt Martin tugging at her sleeve. She bent to better hear him.

"Bridget?"

"Yes, Martin?"

"You said Constance's mum and dad picked you to be a sort-of mum?"

"That's right."

His features formed the picture of contemplation. "Well. If I had to pick someone to be my mum," he said, "I'd pick you too."

His words brought unexpected emotional tears to her eyes and a smile to her lips, and she brushed them away then put her arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss onto the top of his head. "I would be so honoured if you did," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

"Auntie B! Look! Look at that pretty white horse!"

At Constance's shriek, Bridget directed her attention to the ring just as Martin clasped her forearm with a fierce grip. The lights lowered just as a woman in a beautifully sequined outfit came from out of nowhere, apparently, atop a gorgeous white horse—standing in her bare feet upon the horse's bare back—as it trotted around the perimeter of the circle.

"Oh my gosh!" he exclaimed. "Look what she's doing now!"

When the woman began doing tricks, the children—the two she was with as well as the others around her—were enraptured. She smiled smugly. She had definitely scored a hit.

As the show went on, as they made a mid-show trek to the loos, as the animals and performers came and went, she kept thinking about Martin's comment. As much as it pleased her that he could feel so comfortable and happy with her, it also sent faint shivers of alarm through her body. She wasn't even really sure why. Maybe it was that she felt terrible for Martin; she knew it must have been hard on him, particularly around other children's families, to be faced with the fact that his biological mother—that selfish woman who infuriated her beyond reason—wanted nothing to do with him. By his own words he seemed to be getting really attached to her, and she could not help but feel a bit of worry that if things didn't bloom with Mark (it had only been one date, after all), Martin would be the one to suffer the most, and that was the last thing she wanted. She really had come to care for the boy.

_Be careful what you wish for_, she thought, considering her plan.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 10.**

Mark expected that the traffic around the Richmond Athletic Ground would be madness at the conclusion of the circus, but as he got closer he realised that there wasn't nearly the high level of traffic he'd expected there to be. He glanced at the time: six-thirty, as he'd promised, so it must have gotten out a little sooner than expected. He pulled into a spot in the car park that opened up just as he approached, then turned off the engine and rose from the car, looking around. He didn't see anyone resembling Bridget. He took his mobile from his pocket and dialled her number.

"Hi!" she answered. "Where are you?"

"In the car park to the, er, south west of the Ground. Where are you?"

"We're near there. Be there in a jiff."

He scanned his eyes around, looking for her. "What colour are you wearing?"

"Blue," she said. "Pale blue jumper and jeans."

At once he spotted that pale blue, spotted Bridget and the children linked hand in hand like a chain of varying heights; Bridget held one of the little girl's hands, Martin held the other, and in her free hand Bridget had the mobile held close to her ear as she searched for him. Something about the scene, the three of them walking together like that, touched him deeply. Despite what she thought of her own abilities, she seemed a natural with children; in any case, these two clearly adored her. He certainly couldn't blame them.

She said, "I still don't see you."

He cleared his throat. "Look to your left," he said, then held up his hand and began to wave.

At this she did spot him, and with a big smile steered the children to walk across the grass to where Mark had parked. As soon as Martin saw his father, he broke into a run towards him to hug him.

"Hey," said Mark, crouching to give him a tight hug. "Did you like your surprise?"

"Oh yes!" he said. "And I liked the circus too!"

He did not need to ask why Martin made a distinction; he knew.

"It was so fun!" piped in Constance.

"There were tigers and elephants and clowns!"

"Tigers, elephants and clowns. Impressive." He raised his eyes to where Bridget and the auburn-haired girl were standing hand in hand, and offered them a smile. "How are you?" he said to Bridget as he stood. Martin claimed his hand.

"Surprisingly well," she said somewhat wearily, "given the excitement of the afternoon."

"And this must be Constance," Mark said, turning to the little girl. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Oddly, the girl looked offended. "I already met you before."

Mark was taken aback, glancing to Bridget. "When have we met?"

"You came to visit my daddy."

There was something familiar about her, but surely he would have remembered meeting this child before. "What's your daddy's name?"

She gave him a long-suffering look. "It's Daddy, durr."

"Constance, that isn't polite," said Martin.

"Quite right," said Bridget, fighting a grin. "Come on, let's get them strapped in."

Mark had had the foresight to pull a second child seat from the garage, one from when Martin was a bit smaller, so they helped get Constance settled in as Martin took his booster seat as usual.

"I'll direct you to her house," said Bridget, buckling herself in next to Mark; there was no room for her in the back. "Her mother thinks it's a bit too late for her to be out, so home she goes."

"Aw," said Martin, clearly disappointed.

"I don't wanna," said Constance petulantly, who yawned and seemed inclined to prove her mother correct as her little eyes closed and her head nodded.

"I know you've had a good time today," said Bridget. "Who knows. Maybe we can do it again some time." He saw from the corner of his eye that she glanced to him.

As they started to move towards Constance's house, Bridget shifted in her seat to face forward. "You'll want to do a right there, then a left."

The neighbourhood struck another up another sense of déjà vu as he passed the houses. When they made what Bridget proclaimed to be the final turn and indicated he should pull into the drive at a very distinctive brick-faced house, Mark realised he had been here before. In fact—

"Is Constance's father named Jeremy?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes!" exclaimed Bridget. "How could you know that?"

"A bit of 'small world' here," he said as he switched the ignition off, then turned to her. "Jeremy's a partner in chambers."

She stared at him, unblinking, for many moments. "You're kidding me."

"I'm not," he said. He glanced to the back seat; Martin was looking out the window and Constance had fallen asleep. "We should get her inside. Well. You."

"I'll bring her to the door. Be right back."

Bridget pushed open her own door as he flipped the switch to give her access to the rear door and to the girl. Within a few minutes, a sleeping Constance was being carried to the door, and Bridget shifted her weight in order to ring the bell. The door opened and Mark saw Jeremy answer it. Mark saw Jeremy do a bit of a double-take, look to Mark (who acknowledged seeing Jeremy with a wave), then start laughing even as he appeared to be confused. They had a short conversation as his daughter was transferred into his arms; she said what was evidently a good-night, then returned to the car.

"That was funny," she said, taking a seat again in the car. "He recognised your car, was expecting you at the door, and was a bit surprised to see me standing there with his little girl."

He could not help chuckling as he backed out of the drive.

"Very small world," she said, relaxing back into the seat.

Despite initial enthusiasm on Martin's part, he fell silent very quickly. After negotiating traffic for a few minutes, a glance into the rear view mirror and into the back seat revealed to him what he expected to see: that Martin had crashed fast asleep. He chuckled then looked over to Bridget to see she was yawning and not even bothering to stifle it until she saw she had his attention.

"Sorry," she said as she covered her mouth.

"It's all right," he said, still laughing under his breath. "I'm sure you're exhausted. The circus on its own is a mentally exhausting place."

She nodded. "Should have thought this through. I'm going to be utterly useless as company goes tonight."

"It's all right," he said. "I've got supper warming in the oven."

"Marvellous," she said. "What did you make?"

"Nothing," he said sheepishly. "The housekeeper was kind enough to put together her amazing shepherd's pie for us."

"Oh," she said, offering a smile. "A big serving of that and a glass of wine and I'll be a happy girl."

He grinned. "I'll be more than happy to oblige."

When they walked into the house, Martin groggy from his little nap and clutching his father's hand, Mark heard Bridget draw in a deep breath and sigh. "That _smells_ amazing," she said.

"Her recipe is outstanding," said Mark.

They descended to the kitchen, and Mark directed them to have a seat at the table as he went to the oven, and, donning oven gloves, pulled the casserole dish from inside and setting it on a trivet.

"What can I do?" It was Bridget's voice from directly behind him; he felt her hand brush on the back of his upper arm.

"Why don't you have a seat like I said?" he asked, turning to glance at her.

"Because I want to help."

"Get the wine then. There's a white chilled in the fridge, a red on the counter, and some glasses over there. Oh, and please get Martin some juice."

"Will do."

He pulled down some shallow bowls—better to contain the gravy from within, particularly when it came to Martin—then began to parcel out servings into each. He turned to the table with Bridget's and Martin's and saw that she was looking at him, saw her eyes flick up to meet his with a curl to her lip. He rose his brow in query, wondering what was on her mind. "Later," she said soundlessly, then went on to ask, "So, matching haircuts for father and son? Where did all of your lovely curls go, Martin?" She ran the flat of her hand over the top of his head affectionately.

"He was looking a bit shaggy," said Mark.

"Well," she said, taking her seat. "You look very handsome, Martin." He thanked her as he smiled then picked up his glass of juice with both hands and took a sip.

"Leave room for supper," Mark said, turning away for the one remaining plate. He realised then what her smirk must have meant. She'd been looking at his backside. He felt a smile cross his own lips.

As he returned to the table, he saw Bridget pouring wine for him. She was to Mark's left—he had the head as usual—and Martin was to his right. It surprised Mark that Martin didn't seem to mind that he wasn't sitting next to her. "Here you are." She pushed the glass closer to him.

"Thank you." After pouring her own, Mark picked up his glass. "A toast. To the circus."

Enthusiastically Martin lifted his juice glass. "To the circus!"

Bridget raised her own, touched it to his and said, "Hear, hear." She then took a sip.

The housekeeper had outdone herself with dinner, and the silence during the meal was evidence enough that they were all very hungry. The wine was particularly good, and it tempted Mark to have a second glass. As he ate the last bite, he washed it down with some of that fine vintage and rested back in his seat, feeling the effects not really of the wine, but of the satisfying dinner and the contentment of the evening in general.

As Bridget finished her portion, she leaned forward to rest her elbow on the table, then her chin on her hand. She took the stem of her wineglass, picked it up, and took a long draw. "That was indeed very, very good," she said, her eyes meeting his as she blinked sleepily. "Please thank—" She stopped and her brows knit slightly. "What's her name?"

"What?"

"Your housekeeper. She has a name, I'd wager."

Martin giggled. "Annie."

"Annie," said Bridget. "Thank Annie for me. Mmm."

"Hey Bridget," Martin began. He waited until she faced him before continuing. "Maybe we can watch a picture. I have some discs, other cartoons."

"Only if your father will watch with us." She turned her eyes back to Mark. "What do you say?"

"Sounds good."

It hardly mattered to him what film Martin chose; he had seen them all half a dozen times before. As Martin went over to choose a disc, Mark turned on the television and the disc player, and Bridget sat on the sofa, reaching for a blanket with which to cover herself. Mark took the chosen film from his son and placed it in the player as Martin took a seat next to Bridget. He turned to see that the largest open space on the sofa was on Bridget's other side.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought there was a deeper purpose to Martin's seating choice.

"So what did you pick?" Bridget asked Martin as he curled sweetly into her arm under the blanket.

"The Golden Ticket movie."

"_Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_," explained Mark, taking the remote in hand and sitting by her side, pulling the blanket over his legs.

"Ahhh. A movie about chocolate starring Johnny Depp. Win-win," she said with a wink.

Mark chuckled as he pressed Play, then relaxed back into the sofa.

As the film proceeded he found that as Martin leaned into Bridget, Bridget leaned into him. He raised his arm to put it around her shoulders, and with a smile she rested against him. His fingertips brushed against Martin's hair, and he lazily stroked it as the light scent of her shampoo, perfume or whatever it was she wore pleasantly filled his nose.

About midway through he glanced over to see Bridget's attention completely held by the picture, and that Martin had dozed off to sleep. Not surprising; the boy had had a very exciting day. It was sweet to see her hand resting tenderly on his arm, her fingers brushing in a gentle, reassuring arc. To see him sleeping so peacefully warmed his heart. "Hm," Mark said quietly, causing her to look at him. "I was going to suggest perhaps a scoop of ice cream now we've had time to digest, but he's out."

She looked at Martin as well then chuckled. "I've been known to come up out of a dead sleep for a treat."

"Let me get some," he decided, "and you can sit and…"

"Be a Martin pillow. Right."

There was a moment before he stood where he was transfixed by her eyes, sharing a look that ranked among the most intimate moments he'd ever had. He cleared his throat, tore his gaze away. "Be right back."

"Okay."

…

Bridget watched as he set his corner of the blanket aside then rose to head for the kitchen, which still afforded her a view of him as he walked.

"It's vanilla," he called over his shoulder as he extracted the carton from the freezer. "Will you survive?"

"Somehow I will suffer through," she said with mock lament.

She watched him serve up three small dessert bowls, then he brought them plus spoons over to the sofa. "We don't usually have food on the sofa, but…"

"You'll make an exception tonight," she completed with a smile. She gently shook Martin. "Hey, how about some ice cream, little man?"

Groggily he blinked then looked up to his father, saw the bowls, and immediately perked. "Yes please!" he said, sitting up straight to accept the bowl and a spoon.

After giving Bridget her bowl and spoon, he sat then pulled the blanket over his knees again. "Off the record," she said, pulling the spoon from her mouth, "this may be better than some chocolate ice creams I've had."

"Off the record, of course," said Mark with a laugh.

When they finished their treat, Mark gathered the bowls, then without words invited her to resume their comfortable snuggle on the sofa to watch the rest of the film. With Martin resting happily upon her, with Mark's warmth and the feel of his arm around her shoulders, she had to actively fight falling asleep.

"Film's over."

It was Mark's gentle voice rousing her from what had turned out to be a losing battle. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said softly, pushing herself up a little. "I guess I'm a bit tuckered out myself."

"It's all right. He can be exhausting, especially so if you're not used to him."

Unsurprisingly, Martin was out like a light. She smiled. "Probably his bedtime, right?"

Mark nodded. "I'll bring him upstairs and get him tucked in." After a moment and a softening of his expression, he added, "You can doze off again if you like."

"Will that be okay?"

"I just said it will."

"No, I mean to…" She trailed off. "To drop me home. To leave him here on his own. I'd hate for him to wake and find you gone."

He blinked as if he hadn't considered it. Surely he hadn't assumed she'd stay the night, with his son just a few rooms away. "It's a fair point. I can't recall I've ever left him alone after he's gone to bed."

"I could… take a taxi," she offered.

He chuckled, then bent to scoop Martin up. "I don't think that'll be necessary. Let me bring him upstairs, then we can talk about it."

"I may never forgive you, you know," she said as he nestled Martin into his arms. "I loved those curls of his." At that Mark laughed.

She watched as he crossed the floor then ascended the stairs, then rested her head against the cushion. She looked up at the screen, at the repeating menu, then reached for the remote to switch it all off, sending the room into blessed quiet and dimness.

She turned to look up to the ceiling, which, to her surprise, allowed her to peer directly up into the sky thanks to a skylight she hadn't previously noticed. She sighed. It had been one of the more perfect nights of her life, and her plan to prove her maturity and trustworthiness had seemingly succeeded. Perhaps it was because of this success that she could not help but recall her thoughts of earlier. She didn't want to do anything to hurt that boy: not let him get too attached only to break his heart, not force his father into something he didn't feel for the sake of his son. She was going to have to tread very carefully to ensure nothing proceeded for the wrong reasons.

"Sleep got you again, I see."

She opened her eyes to see he'd taken a seat by her folded knees. "Yeah," she said sheepishly. "I didn't realise you could do stargazing from your own sitting room."

"What?" When she looked up again to the skylight, he turned to follow her gaze, then chuckled. "Ah, right. Well. Still too hard to find the prince's planet through such a small square."

She smiled. "So," she said somewhat hesitantly. "What shall we do about my going home?"

"I'll take you," he said, "and I'll leave a note for Martin by his bedside so that if he wakes, he won't worry."

"Oh," she said, then pushed herself to sit up. "I suppose I should get my shoes on."

"I didn't mean straightaway," he said. "We as adults deserve time together as adults." She wasn't precisely sure of the shade of his meaning, and it must have showed on her face, because he added, "I mean, having adult discussions, that sort of thing."

Her lips crooked into a smile. "Oh," she said. "'That sort of thing'."

"Mmm," he said in assent. "I'm enjoying spending time in the company of someone who's not a colleague, an employee, or a six-year-old boy."

She chuckled. "I'm enjoying it too."

She thought perhaps they would speak more about the day, about his son, but she was mistaken. They hardly spoke at all. Instead, he placed his hand over hers, ran it up and across her bare forearm. With his other hand he traced an arc over her cheek with his fingertips and leaned to place his lips gently on hers. She felt his fingers move to comb into her hair, further fanning the flame of attraction she'd been suppressing all night. In response she sighed and parted her lips in invitation, kissing him delicately, then teasing his tongue with her own, encouraging a yet deeper kiss than the one they'd shared on their date. She lifted her hand up and grazed fingernails over the short hair just by his cheek, over his ear and down to the nape of his neck. With that simple move on her part his kiss turned quite ardent; his hand found her waist and he pulled her closer to him before brushing up and over her side. The very sensation of his hand on her body, of him pressed against her, caused her to shiver, and their kiss broke apart.

"This sort of thing, too?" she whispered, her voice slightly tremulous as he placed tender kisses upon her cheek then moved to her neck. She felt rather than heard him laugh low in his throat.

"And then some," he growled, then offered nothing more, only pulled back to meet her eyes before leaning to kiss her mouth again with a passion as yet unseen. His arms went around her, his hands racing over her back, his fingers pressing into her insistently before one hand went to her thigh then to her knees. To her surprise he slipped his hand beneath her legs and with a quick movement brought himself to his feet with her in his arms.

She did not need to ask what this particular action meant. She welcomed it wholly, even if it went no further than kissing; they couldn't very well become more intimate in the middle of the sitting room with Martin in the house; he might be traumatised for life should he walk in on them.

He made the journey upwards without so much as a hitch in his breath, and did not stop until he'd set her near the head of the unbelievably tall and incredibly soft bed. He kissed her quickly on the lips before going back to close the door and, she observed, latch it. She supposed even the sanctity of the bedroom was not off limits for unexpected nocturnal visitors and was about make a joke along those lines, but the intensity of his gaze when he turned back to her stilled the words in her throat.

He approached her, then crouched before her, putting his hands on her jeaned knees, sliding them up her legs, meeting her eyes once more as his fingers met the lower edge of her shirt.

"This is all right?" he asked, his voice low and thick, more of a statement than a question.

"More than all right," she replied. "I would have objected sooner if it weren't."

A faint smile found his mouth, and with this permission granted he began lifting her shirt until it was up and over her head. Next he reverently traced his fingertips over her skin to the clasp on the front of her bra. He seemed to have a little trouble with the twist and release nature of the clasp, so with a smile she raised her fingers and undid it herself before discarding the garment altogether.

He whispered an embarrassed, "Sorry."

"Don't be," she whispered in return, running the palms of her hands over his shoulders to the button nearest his throat, which she undid, then moved to the next, then the next. "It's actually reassuring that you _can't_ flip it open with two fingers."

He smiled, then as she finished the final button, he brought his lips to hers again. As they reclined back onto the pillows, shoving the duvet and the sheets out of their way, his fingers hesitated then went for the button on the waist of her jeans and lowered the zip, pushed the denim down over her hips. His fingers lingered on the waistband of her pants. She wondered what he was waiting for. When he pushed himself up to stand again, she really wondered.

As he drew his dress shirt off, pulled off his undershirt, she understood; best to get the clothes out of the way now. She kicked her jeans to the floor, then moved to better situate herself under the covers. She pulled them practically up to her chin, feeling oddly shy about her body as he stepped out of his trousers. With only his own boxers remaining he slipped in beside her. Their gazes locked once more. He reached to brush a tendril of her hair away then leaned in to place a kiss upon her lips.

He was gentle even as he was eager, taking his time to say without words that making love was not something he engaged in lightly. There was something about the feel of his fingers on her breasts that caused her lids to drop; the way he cupped one then planted the start of a languorous trail of kisses from between them up to her mouth, drawing a husky groan from her throat; the way he took his time slipping her pants down and turning it into a caress as he did; the way he acquiesced and allowed her to divest him of his boxers, allowing himself a moan as her hands roamed freely over him, just as his own had done to her.

He was either a man who planned ahead for any eventuality or had planned specifically for that night; regardless of intent, he was prepared for the responsibility of sleeping with her. Wisely he stopped to take care of that before grasping her hip, pulling her to him and kissing her. As he did, she surrendered herself to his tender and attentive touch, falling headfirst into the ecstasy he was bringing her. From his responses and his reactions, he seemed equally pleased and pleasured by her own touch; this only rallied his enthusiasm to further heights. As she approached and reached culmination, she bit on her lower lip to stifle her cries; with his own climax he buried his face into her throat and moaned, his breath hot on her neck.

When all went calm again he gathered her up into his arms and held her close, kissing her adoringly, brushing her hair back with trembling fingers. Even as she reciprocated with these ministrations, although still recovering and steadying her breath, she felt herself drawn to sleep, but was she going to be spending the night, or was he about to dash off a note to Martin and take her home?

Just as she had this very thought, she heard a faint tapping on his door. She froze, and if she wasn't mistaken, he did as well.

…

"Dad?" Martin's voice followed up his knock. This was not exactly how Mark had intended on basking in the afterglow with Bridget, but it appeared he had no choice.

Mark let out a long breath. "Let me see what's the matter," he said, cupping her face in his hand and kissing her lightly.

"Please do," she said. He delivered another kiss to her before drawing carefully away, pushing the sheet aside and getting to his feet. He pulled on his robe and otherwise made himself presentable to his six-year-old son before he padded to the bedroom door. He paused to glance back to the bed. In the dim of the room he couldn't see her at all; Bridget had buried herself amongst the sheets, and if he hadn't known she was there, he wouldn't have guessed.

Flipping the latch, he pulled the door open. Martin looked slightly upset. "What's wrong?" Mark asked.

"I fell asleep and didn't get to say goodbye to Bridget."

He ran his hand over his son's short hair. In a way he missed the curls too. "Well," said Mark. "You'll be able to see her in the morning. Will that do?"

"I will?" he said, brightening immensely.

Mark nodded.

"Okay then."

Mark pulled the halves of his robe closer together, then crouched to kiss Martin's cheek. "Go back to sleep," he said softly, "and when you wake up we'll all have breakfast together. Okay?"

"All right," he said. "Come tuck me in?"

Mark rose to his full height again. "Of course." He took his son by the hand and walked with him back to his room, aglow with the light from his Empire State Building nightlight. Martin clambered up into bed then once settled, Mark pulled the sheets up to his shoulders and fluffed up the pillow around his head, causing him to giggle. He lowered himself to place a kiss in the middle of Martin's forehead. "Sleep tight," he said.

"I will." He blinked sleepily. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you too," said Mark. "With all of my heart and then some."

"All of it?" asked Martin, seeming slightly worried. "Is there room for anyone else that way? What about Grandpa, or Gran, or—?"

"There's always room for more love," Mark said, cutting him off before he could build up a real head of steam. "Now. Sleep." He leaned over for one more kiss, then Mark rose and returned to his own room.

Upon entering, as his eyes adjusted, he found Bridget leaning over the side of the bed, peering around in the darkness. "What are you doing?" he asked in a hushed voice, closing and latching the door once again.

"Trying to find my clothes," she said.

"Why?"

"So you can take me home."

He switched on the bedside lamp then sat on the edge of the bed. She looked beautiful swathed in his bedclothes, though clearly she was unsettled. "Do you want to go home?"

"Not really," she admitted with a small smile, "but—well, that was sort of a close call."

"Do you think I want you to go home?"

"Don't you?"

"I just promised Martin you'd be here for breakfast," he said. "Don't make a liar out of me."

At that her features smoothed out and he saw a smile light on her mouth. "I wouldn't want to do that," she said softly.

"There you are then," he said. "It's decided." He stood again and took off his robe, hanging it on the hook on the bathroom door before striding back to bed and slipping in beside her again.

"You don't think he'd be bothered if he knew I was staying over?"

"Why would he be bothered? He likes you." After a moment, he chuckled and added, "The only thing that might bother him is the thought that we're having a sleepover party and he's not included."

At this she chuckled too then curled into his arms again to resume the embrace they'd shared. She made a content little sound as she traced her nails over the mat of hair on his chest. "I _really_ didn't want to have to leave," she said in a quiet voice.

"Good," he said, then, as she lifted her face to his, he gave her a little kiss before she settled again, her cheek on his shoulder, her hand splayed on his chest. Before too long he could tell by the way her breathing had gone steady and a bit shallower that she'd fallen to sleep. He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss into her silky hair. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to sleep with a woman in his arms; he was certain he'd never slept with a woman like Bridget before.

Mark was awakened when streams of sunlight filtered into the room the next morning. Bridget had not yet roused; she was lying on her stomach and had the pillow in her fierce embrace. It made him smile. He turned and glanced to the clock, saw it was barely seven. It was early, much earlier than she rose on the weekend (of this he was sure); he didn't wish to wake her, but he knew his son would not sleep in, not when he expected Bridget over for breakfast. He ran his hand over her shoulder. She murmured something incomprehensible.

"Darling," he said. "I have to get up."

"Hm?" She turned over, and for a moment forgot to be modest, gifting him with a view of her lovely body before she snatched the linens up to her chin.

"Martin. He's bound to be up already."

"Oh."

He lifted his hand and drew back the sheet. "Nothing there you need to hide," he said.

He saw her skin tint pink. "You're cruel."

"How am I cruel?"

"Telling me you're getting up," she said, "whilst calling me 'darling' and plying flattery on me." From her tone he guessed she was teasing, but that there was a bit of a kernel of truth.

"It's not flattery if it's true," he said. He bent and gave her a kiss, sweet but quickly turning a bit too fiery given the situation.

"Cruel," she breathed as he pulled away.

He stroked her face with his fingers, and was about to promise it was not his intention to never again share what they'd had last night when he heard Martin's voice outside the room and an insistent rap on the door. "Dad! _Dad!_ We need to make breakfast before Bridget gets here!"

They both started to laugh. "As I was saying," he said.

"I don't suppose he should see me in here," she said. "You know. _Naked_."

"Too much to explain," he agreed, but all the same bent and kissed her again.

"Dad!" Martin called insistently.

He raised his head and turned to shout at the door, "I'll be right out, Martin. Wait for me down in the kitchen, and don't start a thing without me." He pushed back the sheet and ran his fingers over her shoulder. "What would you like for breakfast?" he asked tenderly.

"Coffee," she said. "Eggy bread."

"As you wish," he said, running his thumb over her nipple as he kissed her once more. It was torture for both of them, he was sure, but he couldn't help himself. He drew away.

"Cruel bastard," she teased, opening her sparkling eyes.

"Sorry," he said, drawing his hand back to a safe distance lest he be tempted again. "You're welcome to anything in the bathroom, including the shower if you like."

"Not too suspicious for me to come down with wet hair?"

"Probably not." He bent for another kiss. "You know I don't want to leave you," he murmured.

"I know; I can tell," she said. "Still, it's nice to hear it."

With that he forced himself away, went for some fresh clothes, picking up his discards from the night before to toss into the laundry bin. After dressing he resisted looking at her as long as he could, and when he did he was sorely tempted to sod breakfast altogether; she had sat up, sheets pooled in her lap, hair wild about her shoulders, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"I'll be down soon," she said. "And you'll look downright psychic."

"What?"

"Making me exactly what I wanted."

He laughed lightly, said, "See you downstairs," then turned and left the room.

Martin had sloppily dressed himself and ran excitedly to meet his father as Mark entered the kitchen. "What do you think Bridget will like best?"

"How do you feel about eggy bread?" he asked, crouching to straighten the boy's shirt and hike up his trousers to sit properly on his small waist.

Martin's eyes went wide. "Yum!"

He directed Martin to assemble as many of the ingredients as he could while Mark made the coffee, directing him to be especially careful with the eggs. Once the ingredients were all together and the coffee began percolating, he set Martin up on the counter and showed him how to carefully dip the bread in the egg mixture and lay it into the skillet.

While the first batch was cooking, Martin overseeing from his perch, Mark poured himself a cup of black coffee and got his son a glass of orange juice. Mark took a long sip of his coffee and combed down Martin's hair with his fingers as he sat there.

"You had a good time yesterday?"

He nodded. "I love Bridget a lot."

"You do?" he asked, a little taken aback.

He nodded again. "She told me that parents can ask other adults to be sort-of parents, so I hope she could be like mine."

"Oh," said Mark, feeling a little discombobulated.

Before this subject could be further pursued, Bridget's voice called out, "Hi!" Mark turned to see her descending into the kitchen. "Something smells really good!"

"Bridget!" At this Mark helped his son to the ground; the moment his feet touched the ground he dashed towards Bridget, who looked fresh and clean, hair damp but neatly combed. She crouched in anticipation of sharing a hug. Martin, however, stopped short of this, giving her a quizzical look.

"Martin? What is it?" she asked.

"Dad didn't let you in just now. Your jacket was on the hook by the door. You smell like Dad's soap, your hair's wet, and you have on your same clothes." He tipped his head to the side. "Did you stay over?"

"Um…" Her eyes went to Mark's, a slightly panicked expression on her face. For his part, Mark could only start to chuckle. She did too. There was nothing more to be done in the face of such acute perceptive abilities.

"Martin," Mark said, then waited for his son to turn to face him before continuing. "Yes. She did stay over. I just didn't want to confuse you."

Martin furrowed his fine brows. "Where did she stay?"

"Oh _God_," said Bridget, covering her face and flushing bright red.

Mark lifted his chin. "She stayed in my room."

"Oh," he said, looking very thoughtful. "Well, that's okay, I guess."

"Is it?"

"Mm-hmm," he replied. "Mums stay in the same room with dads at night."

Mark's eyes flashed to meet hers again, and the look of surprise on her face was unmistakable. He felt a little exasperated, himself. How had he even known about mums and dads sleeping together at night? "Martin, that's a little presumptuous."

"A little what?"

Mark ran his hand over his face. He did not want this conversation just now. "Just give Bridget a hug and I'll get more eggy bread cooking."

Still looking shocked, she reached to hug him. Mark went to the hob, dipping more bread and getting it to frying. "I care about you very, very much, Martin," Mark heard Bridget say. He turned to look at the two of them; she had framed his small face with her hands. "But staying over doesn't mean anything more than staying over. I don't want you to think things that might not be true and be disappointed later. Do you know what I mean?"

He nodded. "I think so. But it's still okay if you stay over any time."

She chuckled, tension released. "Okay then," she said, giving him another hug. "As long it's okay with you."

He hugged her tightly, squeezing his eyes closed before saying, "I love you, Bridget."

Her eyes immediately went to Mark, and she smiled tenderly, running her hand down over his hair. "I—I love you too, Martin." She closed her eyes and held him to her, which brought a smile to his own lips. "Now." She let him go then got to her feet. "About that coffee?" she asked, wiping under her eyes and sniffing.

"I'll get it for you," said Mark. "Cream and sugar?"

"Yes, that'd be great. Thanks."

It seemed weirdly stiff and formal, and as he fixed her coffee for her, he tried to think of how to alleviate that. He should have guessed Martin would find a way to do it without trying.

"Dad?" Martin asked as he set her cup before her.

"Yes, Martin?"

"Don't you want to give Bridget a kiss?" he asked. "I mean, you did kiss her before, right?"

"He's too smart for his own good, Mark," she said quietly with a smirk as he looked down to where she sat at the table.

He leaned and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips. "Martin," said Mark as he turned to his son. "Gentlemen do not ask, and true gentlemen do not kiss and tell."

Martin seemed too happy to see the kiss to care that he was being scolded.

Breakfast preparation was complete in hardly any time at all. He had never seen Martin looking so pleased with himself, and as they ate Mark asked about what he was thinking.

"I knew it the whole time," he said proudly, with a slight air of smugness.

"Knew what?" asked Bridget, who also sounded as concerned as he did that his son reminded him a little too much like the hens of Grafton Underwood.

"About the fox and the rose," he said, then further explained at the undoubted blank looks in return, "I was sure the rose could tame the fox."

It was only at this moment that Mark had the slightest inkling that Martin might have been drawing parallels to real life in his continued reference to the characters from _The Little Prince_. Mark looked to Bridget and saw her expression change, as if the notion was only just striking her, too. "Is that so?" Mark asked.

"Yep. I knew it all along they could be best of friends." He stabbed at a square of cut-up eggy bread, then put it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

"Martin," asked Bridget directly. "Am I the rose?"

"Of course," he said matter-of-factly. "You're pretty like one."

"That's sweet," said Bridget, "but I don't need anyone to take care of me like the rose does."

"Everyone needs someone to take care of them," Martin replied in that same pragmatic tone. "Even my dad. He takes care of me."

"I know he does," she said, "and he does a great job."

"Yeah," said Martin. "He's a really good dad. But I'm sure he'd like help, and someone should take care of him, too. I'm too small."

At this proclamation the two adults shared a smile and a glance.

"And you don't seem to have any thorns, after all," said Mark, then reached across the table to take her hand in his.

She chuckled. "And you are distinctly lacking in too-sharp teeth and claws." After a beat, she repeated under her breath, "Too smart for his own good."

"Wise beyond his years," agreed Mark. "You do know what you're getting into, don't you?"

"No, not really," she said. "But it says something that I'm willing to give it a try anyway."

He laughed low in his throat, then squeezed her hand. "It certainly does."


	11. Chapter 11

**The Fox and the Rose**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 52,845 (total)  
Rating: T / PG-13  
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 11.**

_June_

"Dad?"

It was not unusual for Martin to come knocking on Mark's door in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep, or had had a nightmare, though it seemed that Martin had suspiciously fewer of them since Bridget had started coming to stay more regularly. This evening was one of the nights Mark was alone in his bed—Bridget off to visit her own mother and father, who were in need of moral support working through a rocky patch in their own marriage—and he opened his eyes, pushed back the sheets and sat up as he called out for Martin to come in.

Slowly the door opened, revealing a thin slice of light from the hallway and a small head of haloed hair.

"What is it?" Mark said, then cleared his throat and said it again. He switched on the lamp.

"I can't turn off my brain," Martin said woefully.

Mark patted the bed beside him. "Come here."

Martin ran over, climbed up onto the bed and sat next to his father.

"Why can't you turn off your brain?" he asked gently.

"I miss… well, that's part of it, Dad." He fiddled with his fingers in a fidgety way.

"I don't understand."

He looked up to Mark with luminous brown eyes. "Do I have to wait until you marry Bridget before I can call her 'Mum'?"

The question stunned Mark; he had only really been seeing her properly for a couple of months, and while he thought things were going very well, he was hardly thinking of proposing yet. "Well," he said after a moment. "I can see why your brain won't turn off."

"I know," he sighed.

"What's wrong with calling her Bridget?" Mark asked. "It didn't seem to bother you before."

"Before, though, she was a friend who was a grown-up lady. Now she's your girlfriend."

"_That_ isn't a problem though, right?"

He shook his head vigorously. "No," he reiterated. "But she's not a friend now. She's more like what I think a real mum would be like. She takes me for walks… helps me get my pyjamas on… says nice things about my drawings… makes me snacks… and plays cars with me." Martin's list was delivered with emphasis, a dramatic pause between each item as to underscore the difference between a mere friend and someone who was a bona fide mum. She might not have given birth to him, but she'd been more of a mother to him in the short time he'd known her than his biological mother had ever been.

"How about this," Mark said at last. "How about if I ask her what she thinks of you calling her 'Mum'?"

His eyes brightened.

"But you must promise me, Martin," he added, "that if she isn't ready for that, you must not be upset. I like her very, very much. I think you know that."

"And I know she likes you too," he said shyly. "She gets a happy look on her face when she looks at you."

It was an astute observation for one so young. "Regardless," he said gently, "it's a big step to go from liking someone to having them be… a mum to you, my little boy. Do you understand?"

Martin's gaze was as penetrating and unrelenting as any his father had ever delivered. "I guess," he said plaintively, "but she said she loved me, Dad."

"But what if…" he said, feeling as if he were treading on unsure ground, "let's say something happened and she wasn't my girlfriend any more."

Martin went pale. "What could happen?" he whispered.

"Many things could happen," he said. "Not that I'd want them to, you understand, but sometimes people expect things to be different than what they actually are when they become a couple."

Martin bit on his lower lip. He knew what Martin was thinking; his mother hadn't gotten what she'd bargained for at all, and look what had happened there. He hurried to conclude his thoughts.

"Not that she would love you less," Mark said, because he did not doubt Bridget cared for Martin very much, "but if she wasn't my girlfriend anymore, it might make her sad if you called her 'Mum'. Does that make sense?"

"I don't know," he said dejectedly.

Mark put his arm around his son and hugged him close. "I'm sorry. I'm making it worse and upsetting you. How about I talk to her about it and we'll take it from there?"

"Okay," he said. After a moment, he added softly, "I don't think she'd mind."

"Pardon?"

"If she wasn't your girlfriend anymore. I really don't think she'd mind if I still called her 'Mum', 'cause I think she loves me too much to want to go away and never see me again."

He wasn't about to try to make Martin understand that it was often far more complicated than that, so instead he just hugged him tighter. "I'll ask."

"Okay." He turned to look up to Mark. "When's she coming back?"

"I think on Sunday night," he said; two nights away had never seemed so long. "She promised she'd come and have supper with us when she gets back. Now it's time to go off to your own bed, count down from the biggest number you can think of to help turn off your brain."

He nodded, yawning broadly and showing off yet another lost tooth before getting up onto his knees to hug and kiss his father. "Love you, Dad."

"Love you too," he said, "with all of my heart."

Martin chuckled. "And then some."

He watched the boy go out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him, before he reached to turn off the light then lie back onto the pillow again. Barely five minutes passed before he realised that he now couldn't sleep. He turned to the bedside table, saw it was a few minutes past eleven. Surely she wasn't sleeping yet; surely not.

He palmed his mobile and dialled hers. It rang three times before she picked up, whispering, "Mark?"

"Yes, it's me."

After a beat she said, worry in her voice, "Is everything all right?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "I mean, yes it is, but I've just had the oddest conversation."

"With whom?"

"My son."

He heard her lightly laugh. "Can't say I'm surprised," she said. "How is he?"

"His brain wouldn't shut off," he said, cradling the phone, "so he came in here just now."

"All right," she said encouragingly, waiting for more.

"His dilemma… involves you. I promised I'd ask, and didn't want to wait until I saw you."

Another beat. "Ask what?"

"He says it's not right to call you by your name," he said, then swallowed hard. "Because you're more like a… mum."

She did not say a thing for so long he wondered if the call dropped. Finally she repeated, "And you wanted to ask what, exactly?"

"What you'd think if he called you something beside your name."

"Like… what?"

"Like…" He sighed, wondering if she was being deliberately obtuse. "He'd like to call you 'Mum'. But if you'd rather he didn't, or if there were something else you'd prefer instead, a compromise or something…" He trailed off. "I already prepared him for any answer, so don't feel pressured to say something you think he's expecting."

"Oh," she said. Her voice sounded choked with emotion. "Mark, I… that's huge."

"I—" he began, then stopped. If anyone deserved the honorific, she did. She practically was already doing the job. "If my ex-wife were to show up tomorrow wishing to claim him as her child, I don't think I could bear for him to call her 'Mum'. She never cared for him when he had a stomach ache, never gave him a hug when he needed one, never sang songs to him or read him stories, never brought him to the circus or made him a half-birthday cake. It would be fraudulent and not deserved or earned. It would be dishonest." He paused. "I know you've only been with us—with _me_—a relatively short time, but there's no one I'd like him to think of as a mum more than you, Bridget." He sat against the pillow. "I wouldn't ask you to do anything you weren't comfortable with, but by the same token I don't want you to refuse thinking I have an objection."

"Mark…" she said. "I just—"

"Think about it," he interrupted; she'd sounded lost, and he wished that she were there with him so he could comfort her. He felt selfish for not waiting to ask this in person. He should have known how she'd react. "God. I'm sorry to drop this on you right before bed. That was foolish of me."

"Why should any of us sleep tonight?" she said, joking weakly. "I… just don't know."

"Just give it some thought," he said.

"I will," she said. He could hear her yawn, and when she spoke again she forced normality into her tone. "Ugh. I should go. Mum wants to go to the farmer's market, and knowing her… crack of dawn."

Mark laughed, then sighed again. "I haven't upset you, I hope."

"I'm not upset," she said. "Thoughts in a whirl, yes, but upset? No." After a few seconds, she spoke again. "Good night, Mark."

"'Night, darling."

There was another pause before she disconnected.

…

With a great exhalation of breath Bridget set the mobile back onto the nightstand. _There'll be no getting back to sleep in my near future_, she thought, then pushed back the sheets, reached for her handbag and dug in for the Silk Cut and her lighter. She then rose and hoisted the window further open; why she had to maintain the pretence of no smoking when her father and mother both smoked too was beyond her understanding.

She drew in deeply as she lit a fag and leaned on the window sill, and she considered what Mark was asking. There was an initial shock that was still waning, but the longer she sat puffing in the dark and still of the night, the more things came into focus.

Being with Mark was wonderful, and she preferred to think that if he'd had no son, they might have found one another anyway. There had never been a single moment, not one, when she saw Martin as an obstacle to her happiness, when she'd wished Mark had no child. Martin added to the joy, even if he sometimes (albeit minimally) added to the frustration.

And then it struck her; the implications nearly made her drop her cigarette into the bushes below: this was not something a single father would ask a just-for-now girl. He hadn't even said the 'l' word to her yet—and he was advocating for her taking on the mantle of 'Mum'?

"No pressure, Bridge," she muttered in a raspy voice, stubbing the butt end of the ciggie into the ashtray on the sill. She sighed heavily, coming to realise that despite all of her mental objections, in many ways she already considered Martin as something of a son. She could not think of any circumstance in which she would no longer feel that way for him, even if things went sour between herself and Mark. It was that same unconditional love one would expect to have for a child, a love which his own natural mother had apparently never possessed… and if he and his father specifically approved of her to take on that title, that role, how else could she possibly feel but honoured and humbled?

She threw her cigarette packet and lighter down onto the bedside table; it went skittering off and onto the floor, but she didn't care. She was too busy reaching for her mobile and punching in Mark's speed dial number with far more force than strictly necessary.

"Hello. Yes. Mark Darcy speaking," he said groggily, clearly sleep addled and not looking at the display to see who was calling.

"Mark," she said, trying not to chuckle. "It's me."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, then furrowed her brow. "Why would something be wrong?"

There was a bit of rustling, as if he were turning over in bed. "It's three in the morning."

"Oh, Christ. I'm so sorry. I had no idea it had gotten so late…"

"Who is it?" asked a third voice. "Is it bad stuff?" She realised then it was Martin's voice.

"He still couldn't sleep," Mark explained.

"Tell him it's not bad stuff," said Bridget with a smile. "Tell him if he likes he can talk to… well, to the lady he wants to call 'Mum'."

"You've decided already."

She nodded, then said (as it occurred to her he couldn't actually see her nodding), "Yes."

"Yes, you decided, or—"

She chuckled. "He can call me Mum if he likes. If it's really okay with you."

He was silent for a bit. "You're sure."

"If you are… I am. And it's far more important that you are."

"One moment." He put his hand over the mouthpiece as if to muffle the sound, but she could still hear him as he spoke to Martin: "It's for you."

"_Me?_ Who is it?"

After a beat, Mark said, "Mum."

"Mum?" Martin sounded titillated yet bewildered. For a horrible moment she thought he might be in shock, too excited to speak because the woman who'd given birth to him had finally deigned to acknowledge his existence… but then he followed up with an enthusiastic, "Oh my gosh! You mean she said it was okay?"

She laughed even as she choked back a sob, sudden and copious tears in her eyes.

The next thing she heard was Martin's voice close in her ear. "Hi!"

"Hi, Martin," she said, feigning seriousness. "Well, let's have it then."

"What?"

"Go ahead and say it," she said, smiling and sniffing at the same time. "Maybe then your brain will turn off."

She heard him giggle. "I love you… Mum."

She took a moment to collect herself amidst more tears and rustling in her earpiece, then cleared her throat and said, "And… I love you."

There was a weird silence on the other end of the line before she heard a reply. "I love you too." It was Mark's voice, and it was uncommonly unsteady and emotional.

"Oh," she said without thinking.

"Oh, you thought—" Mark said, then stiltedly finished, "Ah, that Martin was still on the line."

"Yes, I did," she said. "But you know what? It's all right. I still meant it. Just… didn't want to move too quickly with Martin to think about."

She heard a rush of air pass over his mobile's microphone. "You just agreed to allow him to call you 'Mum'. I hardly think saying 'I love you' is unreasonably rushed for our timeline."

"I love you," she echoed. It felt so good to say it out loud. "And bloody hell, I wish I weren't in Grafton Underwood. Damn Mum and her so-called 'friend' Julian."

"We'll see you soon enough," Mark said. "Sleep well so you can enjoy the farmer's market with your mother."

"I'll try."

"Goodnight—Oh, hold on. Martin wants to say goodnight."

Mark passed the phone back to Martin, evident by the additional rustling sounds. "Goodnight, Martin," said Bridget. "Sleep tight."

"Nighty night," he said, then before she could say anything Martin hung up the call.

Sleep was not quick in coming and was fitful, and when she heard the rap at the door and the too-chirpy voice of her mother at seven-thirty she felt a murderous rage until she remembered the wonderful phone call of the night before. She was tired and it showed, but she didn't care.

"Darling, whatever is wrong with you?" Pam asked as Bridget came into the kitchen.

As eager as her mother had been for her to start seeing Mark, Bridget had been hesitant to go into much detail regarding the development of their relationship; she liked having this to herself, even as she knew it wouldn't last forever. "Nothing at all," she said, sidestepping the issue. "Just had trouble sleeping in that lumpy bed."

Pam made a dismissive sound. "You sleep just fine in that bed all the time," she said.

Colin blew air through his lips. He had been even more taciturn than ever during this visit, understandably so with the spectre of possible infidelity hanging over him. Her mother had denied even having an interest in this Julian fellow beyond friendship, but Bridget had every intention of pumping her for the truth whilst out at the farmer's market.

It was over a bin of fresh cucumbers that her mother had broken down and confessed that she had actually seen Julian on the sly, and they had engaged in rather heavy petting, but had not had sex. This relieved Bridget immensely, but she knew her mother truly loved her father and didn't understand why she'd even be tempted.

"It just felt so nice to have some attention," she admitted as they stepped away from the crowd for a little more privacy. "Your father… I love him, but I sometimes feel a bit… taken for granted."

Bridget felt teary, and on impulse reached out and gave her mother a hug. "You know he loves you too, Mum."

"I know," she said. "But I get the feeling sometimes I could dance around naked with my hair on fire and he wouldn't notice."

It was a mental picture she didn't really want, but she did her best to be supportive. "Mum," she said, "he may have a… quiet way of showing it, but he does love you, and nothing is worth the momentary thrill this Julian fellow might have to offer."

Pam pushed back and stared at Bridget as if her daughter had sprouted an extra head that had taken to speaking Mandarin. "What?" she asked, her blue eyes red and rheumy.

"Well, you know what they say," she said. "'Slow and steady wins the race every time.'"

"I know what you _mean_," Pam replied, still looking puzzled. "I'm just surprised to hear you say it."

"Why?"

"Well, _darling_," she said, sounding a little more like her usual self, "to be honest, I always had the impression that you were keen on the more adventurous, naughty types yourself."

"Which is true," Bridget said. "I was. But it's not what it's cracked up to be. Adventurous, naughty types, as you say, are always looking for the next thrill. They get bored easily." She sighed. There was really no reason not to explain what had been going on for the last two months. "I have a confession of my own, Mum. I'm seeing someone, someone whose thoughts, emotions and feelings are not always obvious, but he's kind, funny… and as solid as anything."

Pam looked decidedly more gobsmacked. "You're seeing someone and you didn't tell me?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have said something sooner, I know. But you have to know that just because Dad's feelings aren't on the surface doesn't mean they aren't there. You may have to work a little to draw them up."

"Is that what you did?"

"I had help," she said, thinking of Martin. "But yes, ultimately that's what I did."

Her mother was trying so hard to keep herself together, but Bridget could see her lower lip trembling with emotion.

"If you want, I'll talk to Dad for you…" she said, but her mother started shaking her head.

"No. This is something I've mucked up. I have to fix it." She sniffed, then smiled, reaching to put her arm around Bridget's shoulders to herd her off towards market again. "So. You're seeing someone? Is it serious?"

Bridget chuckled. "I think it might be."

"If you're happy, darling, then that's all that matters," said Pam, "though I do wish you'd given Elaine's Mark a chance—"

Her mother went on but she didn't hear, because as if the mere mention of his name had summoned him into being, at that moment, not quite four booths away, she saw Mark striding towards her with Martin's hand in his. He hadn't yet seen her, though he was clearly scanning the crowd for her. It turned out to be Martin who spotted her first, and he broke away from his father, visibly startling him until he spotted her, too.

"Mum!" he said just before impact with Bridget's legs. Bridget wondered if her mother might faint.

She crouched to hug Martin properly, but glanced up to meet Mark's eyes as she said to Pam, "I can explain."

"I ruddy well hope so," said Pam, who saw Mark at that moment. "Oh, Mark," she said to him. "Good morning! We were just speaking of you. I should have recognised your boy, though why on earth…" She trailed off, then looked to her daughter, who had risen with Martin's hand clasped in hers.

"Seemed a fine morning to strike out to the farmer's market," he said. "Martin was raring to go."

"My godfathers, it's _Mark_ you're seeing, is it?" Pam guessed. "Why didn't you just say so? And why is he calling you Mum?"

Bridget disregarded her mother, only smiled as Mark stepped forward to take her into his arms for a hug, planting a kiss into her hair.

"Because he thinks of her as one," explained Mark gently. "And she liked the idea."

"It was my idea," said Martin.

Bridget pulled back to turn to look at her mother, who appeared to be shocked, but also tearfully happy. "I think you were right," said Pam. "You know, _serious_."

Bridget smiled.

They began to walk through the rest of farmer's market. She watched as Martin looked in fascination at the tables and tables of fresh produce, jams and even baked sweets, and was equally amused to watch Pam revert to protective mother with him, taking his hand, admonishing him not to touch anything and explaining when asked what this vegetable or that fruit was.

"He hasn't been to one of these before," Mark explained, walking with her hand in his. "Plus, he was dying to try out your new moniker."

She chuckled, squeezing his hand just as she caught a snatch of conversation between her mother and—well, she supposed she should start thinking of him in terms of 'son', if he was going to call her 'Mum'.

"So you're _her_ mum?" asked Martin.

"Yes, darling, I am," Pam replied. She thought it sweet they were walking hand in hand.

"So does that mean I should call you 'Granny'?"

Bridget half-expected her mother to go into a fit of seizure at the thought of being referred to as a granny—illogical, as she'd been pestering Bridget to find a man, get married and have babies for years—but instead she merely asked, "'Should'? Sweetheart, you can if you like. But you're not required."

"What else would I call you, though?"

Pam seemed to realise his logic, at calling her daughter 'Mum' but her 'Pam'. "Point taken," she said.

Mark leaned in close to her. "How's everything going with your parents?"

"Mum and I had a breakthrough," said Bridget. "She's going to work things out with Dad on her own."

"Glad to hear it," he said, "and I say that for unselfish as well as selfish reasons."

"Selfish?"

He released her hand to slip his arm around her waist. "I want to take you home," he murmured into her ear. "Today rather than tomorrow."

"What about Martin?"

"Perhaps Constance could use a play date," he said.

She smiled, then reciprocated with her arm about him. "Perhaps."

…

Mark purchased some apples and pears, which thrilled Martin to no end. They returned to have lunch with the Joneses; Colin Jones seemed very pleased indeed to suddenly have a grandson of sorts, and very surprised at his wife's sudden turn of attitude. Shortly after eating Bridget gathered her travel bag and they made their excuses, but not before giving her father a long hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Glad to see you so happy, pumpkin," Mark overheard him say to his daughter, "but really, you shouldn't be keeping this sort of happiness from us."

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry. But you know how Mum can be."

"Yes," he said, "and to be frank, I'd worry if she were any other way."

Bridget chuckled, kissed him again, then pulled away, said her goodbyes, and they were off.

Whilst in transit, Bridget rang up to see if Magda might be willing to have Martin over for a few hours. He saw out of the corner of his eye that she was flushing beet red as she said, "Yes," leading him to speculate that her friend had guessed the reason for wanting Martin out of the house for a little while. He looked to her then reached his left hand out to cover hers.

After eating one of the farm-fresh pears, Martin dozed off; Mark thought that it did suit him better when his hair was a bit longer, and he was only a child, after all. All things considered, life was pretty perfect all around. He would not have guessed in a hundred lifetimes that the smoking, drinking, verbally incontinent spinster he'd first become reacquainted with half a year ago would turn out to be the partner he'd always wanted and doubted he'd ever find, one who loved his child as if he were her own, and one for whom those feelings were reciprocated in full. When they arrived back to London, he would stop at Jeremy's and find Constance beside herself to see her friend Martin; then he'd take her home, whisper directly into her ear exactly how much he loved her, and then show her.

_Early November_

"It's bloody freezing out here," muttered Bridget.

"It was not my idea," Mark said.

"Wasn't mine either," she retorted. "Good thing he's cute."

She looked over to where Martin sat on a blanket on the bonnet of the car, which was parked on a country lane just outside of Grafton Underwood. The newly turned seven-year old was bundled up in a jacket and knit hat, his curls peeking out from the lower edge, his face turned up to the crystal clear night sky in rapt fascination. She looked to Mark once more as he leaned against the driver's side door, and as she exhaled she watched her breath trail up into the darkness.

"Yes," agreed Mark. "But I was referring to your jacket, and my prior suggestion that you wear a heavier coat."

"Shush," she said. She reached out her gloved hand for the edge of his long, capacious woollen overcoat. "You, on the other hand… you look very warm. I don't suppose you'd be willing to…" She trailed off, cocking a brow rakishly.

"I might be persuaded," he said coolly, but she knew he was just teasing, particularly as he then unbuttoned his winter coat and held the halves open. Upon stepping forward he enfolded her in it as she embraced and leaned against him.

"Much better," she said, her leather-clad fingers combing along the knit of his jumper.

He kissed her forehead, then lowered his head to properly kiss her on the lips but stopped when her nose touched his cheek. "Good heavens, Bridget. Your nose is ice."

"And you're doing nothing to thaw it," she whispered, her breath curling over his skin as she spoke. "Shame on you."

He followed through, kissing her properly and at some length, before they were disturbed by the sound of Martin's excited voice:

"Oh, I think… oh, there it is!"

"Where?" At once they broke apart and went around to either side of him, following with their gazes where he pointed up into the sky.

"Do you see it?" he asked animatedly.

"Yes, I do! Oh, it's beautiful!" She was not sure exactly to what he was pointing, but thought it important to support him in locating the prince's planet. Then she did see it, something (a planet, a star; she did not know) shining slightly pinkish in the night sky, and put her arms around his slim shoulders for a quick hug and a peck on his chilled cheek.

"You know, perhaps at this very moment he's looking up and sees us," Mark said, thoroughly enjoying the spirit of Martin's discovery. "So… perhaps we should wave."

Bridget looked to him, her grin irrepressible as she and Martin began madly waving towards the sky. Mark did as well.

"Well," Mark said. "Mission accomplished. You found it."

"And we know exactly where it will be every birthday," Martin proclaimed. "So we can wave again next year."

"Sounds like an excellent plan. Now let me help you off of there. It's cold and we should get back inside." Mark held his hands out towards Martin to help him down to stand on the frosty ground in trainers that nearly identical matched the ones Bridget wore. "How about we go home to Gran's for some hot chocolate?"

"And more cake?" he asked, his bright brown eyes wide and hopeful.

"I suppose," he said, "but you know how your Gran feels about sugary snacks before bed." He opened the door and Martin climbed into his booster seat.

"It is a special day," reminded Bridget with a whisper when Mark stood again.

"This is true," Mark said. "A veritable birthday bonanza. Hope it's been a good day for you, too."

She smiled, thinking of the day that had been filled with her friends, family, Mark and Martin. "It's been great. I've never felt more—" Without knowing precisely why, she stopped short on the word she was about to say: _loved_.

He furrowed his brows, then reached to take her hands. "Surely you know that you are," he said tenderly.

She blinked back sudden tears lest they cool her cheeks further; it was as if he had read her mind.

"Loved," he added, mistaking her reaction for confusion.

"Durr," she said, popping up on trainer-clad toes and snaking her arms about his neck as she kissed him. "As are you," she breathed.

"Dad! Mum! Come on—hot chocolate!"

They both began chuckling at this missive from inside the vehicle. "Typical," he said of an interruption they'd both become quite used to. "Well, come on. Hot chocolate evidently waits for no man, woman, _or_ boy."

She laughed; as her laughter faded, the smile remained, and though it was dark there was enough light to make out his features, so she could see that twinkle in his eye, the creases in the corners indicating he too was smiling, but it was more than just at amusement.

"What?"

"Just grateful for a good many things," he said, "chief amongst them, Antoine de Saint-Exupery and your mother's parties."

She could not help but agree as she gave him one last little kiss before getting into the car. As they drove, she searched again for Martin's 'prince's planet', and once found, her gaze lingered on it until it disappeared behind a copse of trees. She felt the comfortably familiar weight of his hand on hers, and with a contented smile she turned to face forward, to Mark's parents' place, to hot cocoa and cake… and forward to the future.

_The end._


End file.
